quinientos | 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."

Threaded | Flat

For a very long, very hungover moment, Mad Sweeney can't remember who it is he'd gone to bed with.

The blow to his face isn't strong enough to be Cassius -- who hasn't exactly invited him to stay the night anyway -- and the voice isn't Lucy's, so as his head rocks back from the slap -- a good one, one that sends a tingle through his body -- he scrambles to figure out who this might be. There's a good chance she's a stranger, it's not as if he's never done that before, but he hasn't done it recently. For a long time there'd been no one and in Darrow, the only person whose bed he tends to sleep in besides his own is Vasquez.

"Christ's blood," he mutters, his voice thick with sleep. His eyes open and sure enough, the face is unfamiliar, but the words sure as fuck aren't. That's Vasquez hovering over him, Vasquez with a very feminine face and a superb set of tits that Sweeney reaches for without giving it much thought. It's not the strangest thing in the world, after all, not for him. But then, he'd been a bird. Being a woman seems like a bloody gift in comparison.

"Wasn't me, lad," he answers. "I deal in luck and you fuckin' know it."

no subject