allgotrabies | IC CONTACT

"Ba bhreá liom é sin." Now, he likes this game.

Sweeney urges her gently back on the grass, not yielding the superior position, though he not climb on top of her. He rolls on his side and props his head up on his elbow, that he might look down her.

One fingertip traces a slow path from the dip of her throat towards her navel.

"Is breá liom teagmháil a dhéanamh le do chraiceann."

His eyes linger on his had as it takes its sweet time.

"I love to touch your skin."

She shivers under his fingertips, breathing soft through slightly parted lips. She's on full display for him like this, and loving every second. "How do I say 'touch me'?"

He licks his lip, his gaze fixed on his hand.

"Teagmháil liom."

His fingertip slips past her navel, agonizingly slow.

"Téigh i dteagmháil liom anseo." His breath is more shallow. "Touch me here."

Sweeney's hand slides flat to cup her without any form of penetration, his voice softer still.

"Téigh i dteagmháil liom mar seo." He dares a slight peek back to her, more his eyes than his face.

"Touch me like this."

Anseo, she recognizes that word. Which means mar seo must mean 'like this'.

She's too distracted to trust herself to mimic the full phrase back so she tips her hips up a fraction. "Mar seo."

"Aye." Sweeney nuzzles his cheek against her hair.

He slowly takes his hand back, forcing himself to take a deep breath to calm. That said, he's not completely unaffected, though he's also exhausted. There's just something about the words, lost and found again and on her tongue.

"We should speak of other things for a while longer, I think." He smiles gently. "Seem ta remember some roughness being requested in the next go. Wanna make sure I can give it to ya."

She strokes the back of his hand, acquiescing but still enjoying having him near. "Do you get to speak Irish here?" There must be other people who speak it, too. So many ancient people, so many minds knowing so many things.

He shrugs, running his tongue over his teeth. "Met a couple of Irishmen, but they're too young ta know the tongue." His brow furrows.

"There is one cunt. Right after I got here, back when we could only speak in different languages. He couldn't speak it 'pparently. But he kept writin' me notes an' throwin' 'em at me."

Sweeney rolls his eyes, clearly not a fan. He goes on to describe a fellow conspicuously like Thomas Blanky.

"Aw if that's who I think it is, he's nice," she laughs. Blanky was the only person she was able to go to when Crozier disappeared, but she hasn't dared touch base with him now.

The last thing she wants to think about right now is Crozier, though, so she gladly seizes up another topic. "How d'you feel about songs in Irish? Because I could probably learn some from the library but I wouldn't know what the words mean."

Sweeney's still firm in his opinion about the man being a prick. Annie is too kind to everyone.

But when the talk turns to music, he offers a gentle smile. "I'd like that." His eyes slide up playfully.

"An' maybe I can tell ya how e'ery Irish songs 'bout drinkin'."

"Just about drinking? I heard Ireland's also got lots of sheep." Which might, from someone else, sound like a jab. But she's a wolf. "I always wanted to run through a herd of sheep. I almost did once, on my way through Mexico? But they talked me out of it."

Since a wolf running through a herd is going to end with a whole lot of bloody wool.

His laugh is sharp, like a scoff that kept going.

"Got me there," he concedes with a smile and roll of his eyes.

"We also sing 'bout fightin' an' fuckin' an' war." Sweeney's eyes slip a bit distant for a moment. He hadn't been there, not when the modern were born, of course. But it doesn't mean the subjects had changed or the acts that inspired them. His people's people's people are still fighting and still dying.

That fucking Christ cunt.

"There's a band I heard a couple times, from Ireland." She bites her lip against a smile. "Funny lyrics, and real good barfight music, man. I should find some for you to hear, if you want."

"Sure." He seems vaguely indifferent, but still amenable. Not like he's going to be finding a real bar fight soon, especially after his conversation with Tim.

There's a moment's pause.

"You wanna start lookin' at names? 'Cause I'm guessin' ya might be needin' some fer tryin' on in a bit." He tips is head.

"If ya want." There's no obligation. Not like it's going to stop him from fucking her.

"Think we can find a couple between now and dawn?" A raised eyebrow. "Just in case."

She figures he's the resident expert on Irish names, but she's more than willing to sneak into the library to grab a book. (Well, mostly willing. Leaving this room right now is something she does not want to do.)

"Fuck, woman."

He gives an exasperated sigh with a touch of an eye roll, even though the suggestion had obviously been his. It's still a lot to ask from his body.

"I'll do what I can, but ya best make them count. I ain't a fuckin' machine."

Sweeney's lips slide into a smirk. "Ya lookin' fer a proper name, or just words in general?" Because obviously the latter has more options, especially ones that don't refer to God with the capital G.

She laughs. "Okay, okay, we should come up with some for another time." She's happy just laying here with him. More happy than she really wants him to know.

"Give me some of both. I like the idea of being able to call out your name but, y'know, a couple good curse words for flavor."

Sweeney licks his lip and smirks. "Ya know I ain't gonna give you a proper name, right? Yer stuck with Trouble."

He takes a slow breath to consider it. "So what sorta name ya want? Lookin' fer a particular meaning or just one that's easy ta say?"

"I like it," she says, trying to play it cool but with a little color in her cheeks. What she'd said about pack and new names was true. What she hadn't told him was that sometimes they name each other. It's like this with him often: he brings out the wolf in her but more than that he sifts out the best parts of being a wolf from all the murkiness her pain has caused.

"What's a name that means... clever?" She could have gone for something more playful, a direct translation of Irish Sexy for example, but cautiously she wants to try for something more earnest.

His smile curls a bit at the threatening blush. It's nice to see it; it lets him know he's doing something special.

"A given name fer it, or just the word?"

She pushes her hair back, a tic she resorts to when she's feeling too vulnerable. But she soldiers on. "Whichever one is less weird for you to hear."

"Lotta Irish names gotta deal with church shit that I rather not. But I'll certainly give it a think. The word would be 'glic' (pronounced glick) or 'cliste' (k'lishta)."

Sweeney closes his eyes to sort through more traditional names.

"Yeah none of that Church shit," she grimaces. "Cliste." Glic, she decides, isn't quite versatile enough.

Sweeney doesn't assume that's a final answer. "Lotta names are 'bout who yer da is too. Lots'a 'son'a some prick'. But I ain't got one of those either."

Something catches in his mind and he laughs. It sharp and clear, but promptly truncated with a shake of his head.

Fathers, in her experience, aren't deserving of much besides perhaps a bitter thought or two on birthdays and holidays. And the idea of including his dad--if he'd had one--in this search for a name is a further discomfort.

Then he laughs and she sits up on an elbow. "What? What've you got for me?"

"Somethin' inappropriate," he assures her with another shake of his head. Sweeney' smile lingers though.

"Conrí." (KAWN-ree) He casts his smirk up and askew. "Means 'wolf king', 'king of the hounds'." His brow bounces in amusement, knowing damn well when too far is too far. Still funny though.

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