quinientos | Darrow - Sexswitch for Sweeney

Entry tags:

sexswitch,
sweeney

Darrow - Sexswitch for Sweeney

There's room on the bed when he wakes up.

When Sweeney stays over, there's never room. Someone's elbows are pressed in awkward places, knees are shoved in and usually they have to stack in order to make sure that no one falls off. This morning, when he wakes, there's still a long line of warmth beside him, but Vasquez isn't half falling off the bed (barely), and his toes aren't dangling off (though still near the end). When he rouses, hair is in his face. His hair. Well, if he can call it that, because it's frizzy and the right curl and colour, but it's longer than it should be, not to mention there are things missing on his body that shouldn't be.

Panic swarms Vasquez as he sits bolt upright, patting his bare body down and growling under his breath to see what's happened. It's some form of strange magic, a wicked tease, and glaring down at the leprechaun currently in his bed, Vasquez doesn't think that it's a long stretch to figure out who could be responsible. Shifting his weight until he can kneel above Sweeney, he doesn't bother going light as he backhands him with a slap to his face, following up with a heated one to his chest.

"Puta madre, pinche cabron," he hisses, voice growled and low so he doesn't have to hear the tonal changes that he can't ignore. "What did you do?" he demands heatedly. "I keep your beer out," he gripes, hating how much he sounds like one of his sisters, "I make your offerings, is this funny?" he demands, shoving at his shoulder to wake him past any lingering sleep. "I promise I can make it very unfunny for you."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If Vasquez turns off the thinking parts of his brain, he doesn't have to spend too much time thinking about the lithe lines of his body in this changed state. He tips his chin upwards to catch Sweeney's eye, a determined look there even as he squirms a little, not wanting to admit that he's fucking nervous.

He's been fucked before, but not like this, and he's heard enough stories from whores and other women to know that a man without care can hurt them. Then again, given the attentions he's been getting, Vasquez isn't stupid enough to imply Sweeney would be like that.

Besides, a little hurt isn't so bad.

"Are you saying you don't want to fuck me?" counters Vasquez pointedly. "I never said no, nene," is his encouragement, bearing down on the bed to press Sweeney's cock an inch or two further inside.

"Gotta work a bit on your English there, darlin'," Sweeney answers with a smirk, rolling his hips forward, his cock sinking deeper into him. "I never said any of that."

Sweeney's hand slides down, over the curve of Vasquez's hip and he might not be amply curved, but it's still different. He hangs onto him there, pressing himself in deeper and he's still not being a complete asshole, but he's not hurrying either.

It's a hell of a lot more fun sometimes, dragging it all out.

Vasquez would retort sharply with a mean comment, but he's currently not paying much attention given that his eyes have widened with the sudden full sensation that he's never experienced before. "Cabron," should be ruder than it sounds, but the way it comes out is awed and delighted, but when he doesn't start moving, Vasquez makes a face.

"Puta," he mutters, much angrier as he slaps Sweeney on the ass like a stubborn mule that needs to be made to move. He wants him to go, to move, to get him over that crest of a hill he'd been so close to, but the pause and the frustrations only delay it again. "Come on," he half-pleads.

Vasquez's body is warm and tight around him and he's being urged on, which Sweeney can only take as an indication he's not hurting him too badly, so he rolls his hips back and then forward again, sinking deeper inside of him.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Do that again."

Because the sting of pain he feels at his ass being slapped sends tingling pleasure down through his body, along his spine and into his balls. Shifting on the bed, he loops one strong arm around Vasquez, lifting him slightly, angling his hips and then sinking deeper inside of him.

It's a strange, tingling warm sensation to understand because for all the times he's wanted to feel touched and surrounded and safe, he never thought a leprechaun fucking him while he's a woman would be the ultimate feeling in that, everything building to such warmth and amazing power. Doing as he's told, he slaps at Sweeney's ass again like he's a misbehaving horse, sharply gasping when it rolls him in deeper.

He means not to come, not just yet, but the endless attention, the force, the warmth, the heady feeling, it's all so much.

Vasquez manages a muffled, soft, "Sweeney," before he feels his limbs warm and tingle. "What do you need?" He asks in slurred tones. "Tell me."

What Sweeney needs boils down to the warm body and the thrust of his hips, his breath catching as he pants and moves and holds onto Vasquez. He's hard as a fucking rock and he can feel the way Vasquez's body is so entirely different, warm and slick and he feels like he could just move like this forever.

"Just let me fuck you," he practically growls. Right now he doesn't need anything fancy. He's still half asleep anyway, he's not sure he'd be capable of anything more than this, but later he can find all sorts of things to do.

Instead of answering with words, Vasquez reaches up to loop a lanky arm around his neck, pulling him down to absently kiss him through that warm, hazy feeling that surrounds him, like he's drunk and this is his permission for Sweeney to do whatever he wants, because Vasquez feels fucking wonderful.

Sliding back, he reaches for the headboard to hold on, shoulders arched, and the daring gleam in his eyes is promise enough that Sweeney can go as hard as he wants. At this point, walking funny tomorrow is practically something he wants. "Do it," he agrees. "Cógeme, querido."

The way Vasquez moves, that glorious stretch of his body as he extends his arms overhead, it's like he belongs in this body and Sweeney knows better than to say something like this, but it drags a long groan out of him and he braces his knees and his other hand against the mattress and thrust into Vasquez harder. Maybe he'll hurt tomorrow, maybe even later today, but the way he's arched up like that, it's permission, Sweeney can feel it.

Maybe the hurt is part of what he wants. It's not as if Sweeney doesn't understand that.

He's driving into him, panting harshly, pressing his mouth, his teeth to any skin he can find. There's the sound of skin on skin in the room and that drags a long shudder of pleasure through his body.

Vasquez holds onto the headboard tightly, his hands sharply holding. It's not the same as being tied up, because he would never allow himself to have such things happen to him, but with every frantic, fierce, hard push, it drags a low guttural groan out of him, nothing more than a hiccup of sound.

"Yes," is repeated, again and again, hissed and moaned and murmured, "yes, yes, Sweeney, cabron, carino, yes," he hisses through his teeth, finding it very strange to feel that though he's only come a few minutes ago, he can feel himself on the edge again.

Maybe all those years, he has been missing out on all the glories women can experience with sex. "Come on," he coaxes, eyes half-lidded. "Aren't you almost there?" Smirking, Vasquez releases one hand from the headboard to smack his ass again, thumb sliding lower to circle and lightly press against his entrance, as if he plans to fuck him after somehow.

Sweeney manages a grunt, somehow both pressing back against Vasquez's thumb and then into hims again, grinding deeper. His eyes open, just barely, and there's a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, but he manages another smirk, shifting his hips so he pelvis is able to give Vasquez a little more friction against his clit.

"Want you to come first," he manages to say and it's the truth. Not out of some selfless sort of act, but because he loves that feeling, the way a woman's body will tighten around him rhythmically. Nothing else feels like that. Not fucking a man, not getting punched in the face, nothing is as satisfying as that feeling.

"For you it can just keep going," he continues, dropping his head, speaking against Vasquez's ear. "And going and fuckin' going."

Vasquez tries to squirm away from the lips at his ear, not because he doesn't want them there, but because they're doing so much for him. Normally, he likes to think he has more control than this, but between waking up a woman and Sweeney's relentless, stubborn ambition to make him come, he feels a little like he's falling apart.

He tries for words, but they falter off his lips, turned into soft gasps, edged with mild frustration. Determined to have some control, he slips his thumb a little further inside, but admits defeat when he presses his temple hard to Sweeney's face, sweat-sticky hair tangling as he turns to steal a kiss, pushing back against every rock forward, his other hand slipping off the headboard to grab hold of Sweeney's shoulder.

"Fuck you," he manages to get out, but there's no heat in the words, just teasing delight, gasping when Sweeney slides in and it's nearing too much. "Oh, fuck," he gets out, because as he struggles to grip Sweeney's shoulder, that's when he comes, a sensation he's still not used to, despite it happening only a little bit ago.

It almost makes him laugh and perhaps if he wasn't so caught up in how fucking incredible everything feels, he might still do it, but he can feel that Vasquez is coming, he can feel the way his muscles tighten and it rings a groan out of him again. After hundreds of years of fucking all kinds of people, Sweeney still doesn't know if he prefers men or women, has long since given up trying to decide because it doesn't fucking matter, but he does know this is something unique to a woman's body.

It's just different and he fucking loves it.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, yes, just..." But he doesn't manage any other words before he comes, his hips snapping forward, burying himself inside Vasquez.

That's different. More different that Vasquez had been expecting, if he's truthful, but also not entirely in a bad way. His fingers tangled in the longer strands of Sweeney's hair, he absently pets him as the strangely wonderful feeling starts to dissipate through his bones and makes him feel normal again.

Collapsing back against the waiting pillows with a heavy thump, he feels sated and sleepy and so fucking good, pushing hair off his forehead in absent little pushes, something to keep his fingers occupied. "So that's making the most of it? Not bad at all," he murmurs, a rave review if ever he's given one.

It takes Sweeney a few attempts to push himself back and off Vasquez, not wanting to crush him if he collapses, but he also doesn't really want to move. With a low groan, he finally pulls himself out, then rolls onto his back and collapses beside him, one arm thrown over his heaving chest.

"Fuck," he breathes. It was better than simply not bad and he thinks Vasquez knows it, but he'll take what's offered to him in the moment.

"That's makin' the most of it," he agrees.

He won't ever admit it but when he wriggles to get over and plaster himself to Sweeney's side, that's something that he'd happily do normally, as touch needy as he is. In fact, he absently picks up Sweeney's hand and directs it near his neck and scalp as suggestion.

"Still don't want it to last too long," he says but maybe with more attentions like this, the worst if it might not be so bad.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Darrow - Sexswitch for Sweeney

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject