onlythebranch | (no subject)

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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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.