allgotrabies | IC CONTACT

"We'd have to keep all our clothes on the whole time. I never spent that much time around snow but I don't want any frost bite on anything we like using," sliding her hand down his side, lingering on his hip. It's mostly a curiosity for her; snow seems dangerous because of how little time she's spent in it.

"But I was thinking if we hunt and I'm a wolf, you could just use Irish the whole time. So I could learn directions, y'know, left, right, flank, get ahead, cut 'em off. We could hunt reindeer." One real wolf her size is not strong enough to bring down a reindeer alone, but a lycanthrope is. And with a leprechaun at her back it's just enough challenge to be fun.

With the way she's touching him, he isn't expecting the rest of her answer. Sweeney's smile is soft. Not only is she thinking ahead (which is no small feat for someone so impulsive), she's eager to be the wolf. It makes his heart warm, and he cups her face so he can stroke her cheek with his thumb.

"Perfect." His smile slips into a smirk.

"I thought we were doin' buffalo," he teases. "S'ppose I might be convinced ta do reindeer instead." Sweeney rolls his eyes playfully. He's pretty sure there aren't any in Yellowstone, but that doesn't mean there can't be.

"Reindeer seem more snowy. But also... maybe I'm showing a little faith it'll be so fun we'll want to hunt again." Things with him tend to be that way: terrifying and then immediately things she desperately wants to do again.

"I still have a list of things to show you. And like I said: be ready for some water because I know exactly what we're doing next. But what're some things you want to do you don't get to do?"

Use magic.

"Huntin' will be a great change of pace. Ain't been in as long as I really recall. We should certainly start with reindeer," he offers with brief consideration. "More familiar with that sort of game."

Sweeney smiles and shakes his head down at her. "I'm not lookin' ta make too far a list." His eyes slide up beneath their lids, the curl of his lips not lessening.

"Ya know I'm shit at rememberin'."

"Works for me. I can come up with plenty and half of it on the fly." She kisses that smile, because she can. "We should start fighting again, too. Or at least breaking shit like we did in that posh store."

It had been in the Enclosure, yes, but breaking pieces of art worth more than any home she lived in had felt good. "You ever wrestle a wolf?"

He takes a deep breath, slowly releasing it in consideration. "If I have, I don't remember." Fought them, almost certainly. But wrestling is very different. "Plenty with dogs though." Sweeney's smile is easy, and it comes with a quick nod.

The thought of fighting her on two legs is more complicated. He hasn't fought anyone since...well, Godric. There's something in that that makes his stomach turn. Especially since he'd gone there looking to fight her. Four legs should be just fine though.

"Pretty sure I'm gonna get my ass handed ta me." His gaze drifts to the ceiling as his hand lifts. "Hear they're biters." He 'idly' runs his thumb over the length of his shoulder in passive illustration.

She's aware of his hesitation even if she doesn't understand it. She starts to ask but he goes on and earns a little grin.

She leans forward to bite an unmarked space on his shoulder. "Can't help it," she laughs, bites him again. "You smell so good, I just-" Biting him again on his chest near the collarbone.

Sweeney winces, in surprise more than pain, and his smile gets wider. He leans over her a bit more and nips at her lips.

"Careful, luv," he purrs in suggestive warning.

"Gonna hav'ta get back ta those Irish lessons."

"I'm a real hands-on learner," her own hands running over his chest, fingers tracing all the bruises she's leaving. She resolves here to spend the week in the library, to have phrases to surprise him with. She'll turn up at the knoll, offer him a cigarette, say something clever. Cliste.

"Teach me more. Le do thoil."

The Gaelic cap on her request pulls the breath back over his tongue, and he leans to kiss her, his hand supporting the back of her head. Sweeney breaks it just enough to whisper the words against the moisture on her mouth.

"Cad ba mhaith leat?"

He flicks the tip of his tongue up the center of her lip.

"What do you want?"

"Téigh i dteagmháil liom anseo." She thinks the accent is a little better, but admittedly she's a bit distracted from it since as she says it she strokes her finger along the Mark.

Oh, yeah. That's hot as fuck.

Sweeney moves his hand from his shoulder to hers, cradling the back of her neck so he can draw a soft circle around the Mark's edges.

"Mar seo?"

Her head tilts to offer more of her neck, her eyes flutter closed. "What's the word for 'more' or 'harder'?"

He draws a feather-light path along her jaw with his tongue, from her chin towards her ear before dipping it to the dark patch of skin.

"Níos mó." The pattern of his hand's touch becomes continuous.

"Go crua." He pushes his thumb firmly in the center. "Hard."

Sweeney's hand curls around the back of her neck so he can dig with the full grip of it as he leans in with a low growl.

"Níos crua." He swallows. "Harder."

She cries out, soft and short, ending in a breathless giggle. The pressure of his fingers creates a warm, electric line all the way down her body and she murmurs, "Níos crua, mar seo, le do thoil..."

Hands on learner, as promised.

Sweeney shifts to lean over her a bit more, though he doesn't climb on top of her. Instead he bites at the other purpling marks running down her shoulder. He's rough with her, but not urgent. Quite to the contrary. Each is taken with clear intent.

"Cá?" he purrs against her.

"Where?"

She touches a space on her ribs, just above where they stop. "Anseo."

He's bruised her up and down already, but she's ticklish there, which makes her extra sensitive.

He nips at it for only a moment, but something occurs to him, and he draws back enough to give them more weight.

"Ya ne'er hav'ta say it in Gaelic, English is just fine, but I want ya ta know a few important ones." He tips his head between each, giving her the chance to repeat them back to him.

"Sea. Yes.
Níl. No
Moilliú le do thoil. Slow down please.
éirigh as. Stop it."

He is very serious about each of them, and is prepared to stop where they are if she's not comfortable with any of them.

It's funny, really, how having a different language makes it easier to imagine saying them. Then again, English requests were frequently ignored when she was human, but so far one hundred percent of the things she's said in Gaelic have been responded to.

"Sea," she says, after she's whispered the words to commit them to memory. "I'll say what I need. If you do too."

Sweeney's eyes meet her in solemn gentleness.

"Beidh mé." It's accented with a small nod. "I will."

She touches his cheek, swallows hard. "Sometimes when I'm with you I think I'm not really dead."

Which is, she knows, an odd thing for someone to say. It's less odd than the things she thinks when she's alone.

He catches her hand without any roughness, just that he might pull it to his chest. Sweeney urges it flat against, right below his sternum.

"Can ya feel my heart beat?" he asks with a supportive fix of his eyes on hers.

She doesn't take her eyes from his, but she concentrates on how warm he is, on how his chest rises when he breathes. Underneath it the flutter of his pulse, like a small bird. "Yeah."

"This is where I died." His eyes lower to where their skin meets. "The last time, at least."

Sweeney looks back up to her. "We're both here. Together. Livin' our dead lives." Like Dead Wife. At least this has less rotting.

"It's a'right if ya only get ta feel it some of the time. I'm glad ya can feel it with me."

She keeps her hand there. "You remember how alive your daemon was, though?" Barrog had suited him so well, besides being so much more talkative than he was.

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