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Neither of them really say anything about it, the fact that they spend more nights together than they used to. The fact that Sweeney spends less time finding someone to fuck than he did even a month ago. The fact that he keeps blood in his fridge now, for the times when his own isn't available for whatever reason. Or the fact that not all their nights end in fucking, that sometimes they just spend their time together.

It doesn't have to mean any goddamn thing. Talking about it puts meaning to it and that'd be a really bad idea, so Sweeney doesn't and Spike doesn't and all of that works just fucking fine for Sweeney. And if he likes having someone else in his bed, then that's his own damn business, not the sort of thing he has to start talking about, not with anyone.

Some of the time he wakes up and Spike is gone, which is fine. But other times he wakes up and he isn't and that's a hell of a lot better, but today, this morning, however fucking early it is, Mad Sweeney sort of wishes the vampire had gotten restless and gone for a bit of a walk about, because then he wouldn't have to deal with the inevitable laughter he's going to hear.

At some point in the early hours of the morning, he'd been dragged from a deep sleep by the overwhelming urge to piss and he'd stumbled from the bed, taken three steps toward the door, and realized something was different. He was looking at the entire world from about two feet lower than he usually did.

Heading for the bathroom, he'd flicked on the light, taking in his appearance in the mirror above the sink. The curly, chin length hair, the freckles across a slim nose. No beard. Tits and a cunt. A pretty fucking spectacular ass and legs, he decided, before realizing he would have to sit down for the piss he so desperately needed.

From there he'd gone into the living room without turning on the lights. Wrapping himself in a blanket that normally wouldn't have covered his large frame, Sweeney had sunk down onto the couch and lit a cigarette for himself, and that was where he was now, several hours later, still smoking in the early dawn, the sun not yet over the horizon.

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It was nearly dawn when Spike rolled toward what ought to have been Sweeney's bulk, or at the very least, the warm spot in the bed, only to find it cold. He frowned, blinking open his eyes, the room dimly lit by the milk, early morning glow. He should've been just turning in, but more and more often, his schedule aligned with Sweeney's, and this night was no exception.

Sitting up in the stillness of Sweeney's bedroom, he listened for the sound of movement, but instead, was met with the acrid scent of cigarette smoke coming from the front of the apartment.

Getting to his feet, Spike pulled a sheet loosely around his waist, dragging it light a train behind him as he made his way out into the living room. There, he froze, looking down at the petite redheaded girl wrapped in a blanket on Sweeney's couch. A petite, redheaded girl whose bearings and scent were remarkably familiar.

Brow arched, Spike sat himself down onto the couch at Sweeney's side, because there was really no question in his mind. If it hadn't already happened to people he'd known, he might've been more shocked, but Darrow had a way of making the bizarre seem rather mundane.

"Going to let me sleep all day, were you?" His tone was warm and teasing as he reached out to pluck the cigarette from Sweeney's thin fingers and brought it to his own lips.

Edited 2018-11-11 01:57 (UTC)

"Tryin' t'decide whether or not I wanted to put up with your laughing at me," Sweeney answers as he lets the cigarette go. It's the first time he's spoken and though he still sounds like himself in some ways, his muddied, mangled accent present as always, his voice has noticeably shifted. It's not high exactly, there's still a bit of a rough edge to his words, but it's not nearly as deep as it is usually and he exhales a sigh. It's simply more feminine. How he supposes an Irish queen would sound after spending a couple hundred years in America.

How his mother might have sounded.

"Been a king, been a fuckin' bird, but I never expected to be a woman," he says, tilting his head to the side so he can look at Spike. A thick curtain of his hair falls across his face and he lets out a disgruntled sound, reaching up to push it back, the blanket slipping off his slim shoulder. "I'm fuckin' tiny."

And he has a lot of hair. Which has always been the case, but it's been cut into that bloody mohawk for such a long time that he can't remember the last time he had to pull it back. The last time it would have fallen over his damn face.

"'m not laughing," he murmured, though his lips did curl playfully, cheeks hollowed as he took a deep drag from the cigarette. The taste of him lingered on the filter, just different enough to pique Spike's curiosity.

"Alright, let's have a look at you, then," he decided, cigarette bobbing from his lips as he lifted a hand and brushed the wild fall of ginger hair from Sweeney's face.

"Not so tiny. 'bout average, by the looks of you. A bit taller, even. For a lady," he guessed, looking rather pleased with the situation. Leaning over to stub out the cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table, he reached for one of Sweeney's hands. Palm to palm, Spike's was now broader, his fingers a bit longer, but his hands didn't come near to dwarfing Sweeney's like his usually did Spike's. "The Irish do make hearty women." He smirked.

Edited 2018-11-11 03:02 (UTC)

Sweeney inwardly curses his betrayer of a body when Spike brushes back his hair, the fluttering in his chest an indication of just how much he likes the touch despite himself, and he knows it's not just this bloody body, because he'd probably do the same goddamn thing regardless. He snorts out an irritated exhale, annoyed with himself more than anything, then looks down at their hands, his slim and small in comparison.

Small enough, anyway.

"Comparatively tiny," he says. He's always been big. Even as a boy, Sweeney remembers being taller than other boys, broader in the shoulders before they began to fill out, made of muscle even before he began to train. Seven feet tall before he was even in battle. Now he's shorter than Spike by at least an inch or two.

With his free hand, he tries to yank the blanket back up his shoulder. "Did you just call me fuckin' hearty?"

"Believe I called Irish women hearty, love," Spike said, with a low chuckle in the back of his throat. "You're a bloody monster, under normal circumstance. Did you really expect you'd be a frail wisp of a thing?"

Brow arched, he pointedly lifted a hand to Sweeney's shoulder, gently tugging the blanket down off of it, letting the very tip of his index finger trace the narrower curve, his thumb just barely grazing the rise of his collar bone.

"You're rather lovely, truth be told," he murmured thoughtfully, a warmer edge to his smile as he tucked Sweeney's hair behind one petite ear.

Another person would have had a fucking meltdown, he has to expect, even living in a place like Darrow. But for a man who went mad while trapped in the form of a bird, gaining a pair of tits and losing his dick doesn't seem like such an impossible thing to deal with. He can still walk, can still smoke and drink and speak and respond when Spike touches him, so all in all, he thinks he's probably less concerned than the average person might be.

Spike tug at the blanket and Sweeney lets it go, the air in the flat cool on his skin, and he smirks a little when Spike's finger slips along his skin. Tilting his head slightly, he looks at the path Spike's finger takes, notes the freckles that still stand out against his pale skin, then looks back up again. The smirk softens a little, though he'd fucking deny it and he says, "Of course I fuckin' am. Got a hell of an ass, too, from what I could see."

"No surprise there," he chuckled, coming about as close as he felt comfortable to admitting that Sweeney had one hell of an ass, regardless.

"What's it feel like? Rather strange, I reckon," he guessed, brow arched as he tugged that blanket down just a bit further, exposing one small breast, tipped with a lovely pink nipple, peaked from the chill of the room.

"Seein' the world from just about where you do," Sweeney replies, his grin widening playfully. He lets the blanket slip, though, doesn't do a thing to pull it back up over his shoulder, because he'll be fucked if he admits to any of it, but it doesn't feel half bad, having Spike look at him like this. Not that he expected Spike to be bothered by it much more than he is, but the confirmation is still nice.

"Had to sit down to piss," he adds, leaning toward Spike a little. He's as cool as the air around them, but that doesn't stop Sweeney. "Nearly toppled right the fuck over makin' my way to the couch."

But that's not all. It's not everything. It's hard to explain how it feels, the curves of his hips instead of hard, flat planes of muscle. He's still fit, he'd seen it in the mirror, but it's a different sort. Everything moves differently. When he walks, his feet don't even fall the same way.

"Oh, shut up," he muttered, rolling his eyes expansively, though his height didn't bother him the way it might've. He made up for it in plenty of other ways.

"Shouldn't last too long. You'll have about a week to get used to those little feet," he said, nudging at Sweeney's heel with his big toe. Just like the rest of him, his feet were not only smaller, but also softer. Beneath the blanket, Spike could guess that Sweeney's legs and armpits were still covered with ginger hair, but that it was likely finer, a bit less coarse, just like the thatch of it between his legs would most likely be.

Letting his curiosity get the better of him, he rested a hand against Sweeney's chest, palm pressed between the valley of his breasts, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat beneath his sternum.

"Gonna lend me some clothes until I can get somethin' that fits properly?" he asks and he's still wearing that little bit of a smirk, but it's faded slightly at the touch of Spike's palm against his chest. "Sure as fuck can't spend a week wandering around in the shit I've got here."

One of the shirts he usually wears could be a bloody dress on him in this state, but he's not really thinking about clothes or about leaving the flat. He's instead focused almost entirely on the cool touch of Spike's hand on his skin, the way it sends a shivery sort of heat through his new body. Different from what he's used to, so utterly different, and somehow also familiar.

It makes him want to clamber into Spike's lap without a second thought. Somehow he manages to resist for the moment, but his tongue slides along the edge of his teeth and he drops his gaze to Spike's hand.

"Suppose I could," Spike said thoughtfully, as though he hadn't quite decided how generous he wanted to be. It took only a subtle shift of his hand to cup one of Sweeney's breasts, testing the warm weight of it in his palm, thumb brushing across his nipple as if by happy accident.

"Actually, I think I like the sound of that," he decided, tipping his head thoughtfully. "Might've left a few things here, come to think of it."

"Got your shit all over my flat," Sweeney agrees and the words might have sounded a little accusatory, if not for the breathless quality to his voice when Spike's thumb brushes over his nipple. He's always liked having his nipples touched and he figures Spike knows that by now after all the shit they've gotten up to, but that touch feels different than it ever has before. It makes his nipple harden almost immediately, goosebumps cropping up on the swell of his breast, and a little spike of heat slithers down his belly.

Not to his dick, not this time, but to his cunt. He's been fucked before, he's been fucked by Spike before, but the thought's been circling for a time now and it comes into sharp focus at that touch.

"Fuck it," he says, before reaching up for the back of Spike's neck and dragging him down for a kiss. He's not the sort to beat around the bush at the best of times, but if he's only got this body for a little while, he sees no sense pretending he doesn't want to take advantage of it.

Spike had precious little time to react before Sweeney pulled him in, mouth searingly hot and deliciously bold-- they rarely held back with one another, and he had no reason to think that would change now. He chuckled, a low and growling sound caught in the back of his throat, and all but hauled the newly petite leprechaun into his lap.

"You don't seem to have a problem with that, mate," he all but purred, mouthing his way towards the shell of Sweeney's ear. Like this, the smell of him was intoxicating, though he'd be a liar to claim that it wasn't always.

And that's the thing that gets to him whenever he gives himself a moment or two to think; he doesn't mind. It's the first time in a very long time his flat hasn't been just a place for him to pass out at the end of a long, drunken night.

But Spike's right and as Sweeney suppresses a groan and a shudder at how easily he's moved in this body, he settles himself into Spike's lap and decidedly ignores the statement.

Instead he tilts his head at the brush of cool lips on his skin, then reaches between them and takes Spike's cock in his hand, stroking him toward stiffness. There's an ache between his legs he's never felt before and he squeezes the muscles in his thighs tight, trying to do something about it and entirely failing.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, half to himself. "That's fuckin' new."

"Yeah, I should say so," he grinning slyly against the softer curve of Sweeney's jaw. "Shall we do something about it, then?"

Spike reached between them, between Sweeney's straining thighs, giving him the heel of his hand to press against.

It's a simple thing, but rubbing up against someone -- specifically rubbing up against Spike lately -- is one of those things Sweeney particularly likes. There's nothing about a bit of friction that does anything but make him feel good and he figures this probably isn't going to be a hell of a lot different.

But then he presses himself against the heel of Spike's hand and he finds that he's really fucking wrong about the whole thing.

"Christ," he breathes and his grip around Spike tightens. He feels hot all over, hotter than he can remember ever feeling before, and his fingers press through Spike's hair, holding tight to him.

"Hm," Spike hummed, visibly smug at the flush making its way across Sweeney's bare chest, spreading down from his collar bones and into the valley between his breasts. Sweeney's nipples were tight, his hips already twitching restlessly, seeking out the friction Spike was only teasing him with. It was quite a sight.

"On your back, love," he murmured, shifting him easily to sprawl out on the sofa cushions, shins thrown over Spike's shoulders as he crawled between Sweeney's knees. "Let's get you warmed up first, yeah?"

Spike kissed the smooth inside of Sweeney's thigh, taking his time, but he hardly had the patience to tease, when he felt suddenly like a drowning man. He buried his face between Sweeney's thighs, brow pointedly arched at the questing sweep of his tongue along those new folds, one hand braced on Sweeney's hip as he gave his clit that first playful flick.

He fits on the goddamn couch.

At a time like this, he knows he shouldn't be marvelling at such a stupid little detail, but for the first time in his bloody life, he fits on a goddamn couch without having to shift and curl and squish just to make it work.

And then suddenly none of that matters. Suddenly Spike's face is between his thighs and it's nothing like having his cock sucked, nothing at all. There's a hand at his hip, holding him down, and he can feel it in some vague way, the cool press of Spike's fingers, but all of that is secondary to the swipe of his tongue.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he breathes without meaning to. Little pinpricks of light are going off behind his closed eyelids and he forces them open so he can look down at Spike. "Fuckin'... do that again. Harder."

"Yeah? You mean this," he asked, grinning wolfishly before burying his face between Sweeney's thighs, licking him again with the flat of his tongue. It was as much of a tease as he could manage before licking deeper into the core of him, then chuckling low in his throat as he dragged his tongue up and around that swollen bundle of nerves.

"You're going to be so pretty riding my cock," he purred, letting the low base of his voice buzz against Sweeney's sensitive skin. It had been a bit of time since he'd done this, but it certainly wasn't something a man forgot. He dove in with aplomb, determined to tease an orgasm out of this brand new body before Sweeney even knew what hit him.

Mad Sweeney knows the value of being a man who both enjoys and is good at going down on a woman, although he's never fully appreciated until this moment, until he has Spike's head between his legs, Spike's tongue lapping at his clit, Spike's cool skin pressing against the insides of his thighs. As much as he can already feel this new body aching to have Spike's cock inside of him, this is something different. Something beyond anything he'll ever know as a man.

He's already breathing hard, panting, pressing himself against Spike's mouth without the slightest hint of self consciousness. No fucking sense to that, not when he knows Spike knows him better than that.

Something inside of him begins to build. A sense of heat, like the skin of his cunt is growing impossibly hot, like all the blood in his body has gone straight down between his thighs. Fine tremors are running through him and he fists both hands in Spike's hair, unable to make coherent words, and instead all that slips out of him is a string of sounds.

Spike knew the moment that pleasure in the core of him began to crest, Sweeney's thighs trembling and his hips rutting mindlessly against Spike's face. Luckily for both of them, Spike didn't need to breathe. By the time Spike wormed two fingers inside of him, curving them upwards all while lapping gamely at Sweeney's clit, the sounds coming out of him could only be described as a continuous, strangled moan.

Spike chuckled softly, working him through it, letting out a playful growl when Sweeney pulled sharply at his hair.

His mind is nearly entirely blank and he's only just coherent enough to think he was goddamn lucky that Spike had spent the night as he comes, as it rolls over him, as Spike keeps at it. Sweeney thinks for a second he might just black out.

Seven goddamn centuries and not once has he known a thing like this. He's been fucked before, but Spike's fingers inside him are something else, especially as he feels them curling, stroking.

"Fuck," he breathes, panting hard, little tremors of pleasure still rippling through him. It's like this body isn't done, no matter what he thinks, and every time he relaxes a little, his muscles pull tight again. He's not close to being done. There's no refractory period, he doesn't need a break, and he wants to shove Spike onto his back and climb on top of him.

Just as soon as his legs work again.

Spike eventually lifted his head, but instead of pulling away entirely, he replaced his tongue with the gentle stroke of his thumb, the rough pad of it circling that swollen bundle of nerves while his long fingers continued to pump within Sweeney's body.

"Think you're wet enough now for me, love?" He asked, shifting to sit on his haunches between Sweeney's spread thighs, his brow arched as he watched the waves of tremors working their way through Sweeney's body.

His only answer is to finally sit up, to reach down and press Spike's thumb harder against his clit for a moment before he shoves against his chest, trying to push him onto his back. For a moment, and he'll blame the shift in fucking hormones later if it comes to that, he's done pretending this doesn't mean something to him. No one sleeps in his flat, no one shares his bed, no one sees him first thing in the morning.

No one gives enough of a shit, but he's always been comfortable with that, because he hasn't given a shit either.

Climbing on top of Spike, even through the haze of lust, the glaze in his eyes, there's something distinctly fond in Sweeney's expression. He's not thinking to try and hide it when he leans down and kisses Spike again. On his lips and tongue, he can taste himself, and a little whimpering groan slips out of him.

Chuckling low in his throat, Spike sat back, gathering Sweeney into his lap. The only thing that kept him from smirking like the cat that got the cream was that his mouth was otherwise occupied.

"Well, hello," he murmured, one arm curled around the small of Sweeney's back while he reached between them and took hold of his cock. Rubbing the head along those slick folds, he did nothing more. While they were rarely so careful with one another, it seemed rather vital that he leave this up to Sweeney. Because this was all new, perhaps, or because he'd always gotten off on a girl taking from him exactly what she wanted.

This is supposed to hurt. That's what media and Sweeney's own experience has led him to believe over the years and he figures he ought to take his time with this, make it so he doesn't fuck this all up before it even really begins.

But he's always liked a bit of pain with his pleasure and Spike knows that well enough by now. There are still scars on his throat that can attest to that, scars Spike put there not all that long ago.

He reaches down, too, and while he doesn't knock Spike's hand aside, he does take control, slimmer fingers wrapping over top of Spike's. Bracing his other hand on Spike's shoulder, Sweeney sinks down, probably quicker than he ought to. He is in no way prepared for it, for the burning, the feeling of being stretched past his capacity, for the sensation of being full, and he groans a little desperately, his fingers curling tighter on Spike's shoulder.

Spike wondered if it ought to have been easy for him to get lost in this, and forget that this was Sweeney sinking down onto his cock, Sweeney groaning roughly, and Sweeney's slim fingers biting into the wiry meat of his shoulder. The face hovering above his was that of a stranger, more of less. A lovely girl, fresh-faced and freckled, with soft hips and perfect little breasts, and she might've been a girl he'd met for just a bit of fun and nothing more.

But somehow, it was impossible to forget, the two of them staring a bit shell-shocked at one another. "Alright, love," Spike murmured, letting go of his cock as Sweeney took him in, his hand braced instead against his hip, the other hand resting against the curve of his spine. "That's it," he said a bit uselessly-- feeling rather useless under the strange weight of it all. He swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing as he watched as Sweeney settled.

Later, if he lets himself think about it, Sweeney will blame the rush of new hormones for making him feel so goddamn sentimental in this moment. There's a burn and a stretch and the muscles in his thighs feel pulled taut and that'd be enough, he thinks, to get lost in, but he feels an irritating and inexplicable surge of affection for the way Spike is looking at him, something he has to bury in a kiss.

At no point does he wonder if he'll know what to do. It's arrogant as fuck, but he's done this enough in his other body that he's got no doubt biology will take over if he's at a loss.

His hips roll and Spike is suddenly deeper inside of him, deep enough that he makes a startled and really fucking undignified sound against Spike's mouth. He's pressed close, barely any space between them at all, before he starts to really move in earnest, the muscles in his thighs beginning to burn.

"Oh God," Spike breathed, feeling the air punched from his lungs, despite not needing it. It was only sex. He'd done it countless times. Strangely, only as a dead man. The warmth of being with someone alive still tended to startle him, despite it being the norm for the last decade or so.

It was only sex, he reminded himself. It was a bloody mantra rattling about in his brain, as he felt entirely undone by the way Sweeney strained and settled atop him, searingly hot wherever their bodies touched.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ on his cross," Sweeney mumbles, words more or less meaningless to him at the moment, unable to focus on anything but the points of contact between them. He's hot again, hot all over, muscles trembling, and he knows he's never felt like this before. It's so goddamn different, the sense of being full, but of it fitting. This body is made for shit like this, it's made for exactly what they're doing, and he groans again as he pushes his hand against Spike's chest.

It changes the angle again, when he moves away, and his hand falls from Spike's chest to his hip, then reaches behind his own body and braces himself against Spike's thigh. He'd had no bloody idea, how much something could change with just the smallest movement, the change of angle, the shift of his hips. Whatever he's just done, though, is so close to perfect that he's almost afraid to move again.

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