An Cat Dubh 25

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Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
Nov 27, 2010
pearl jammin'
Sorry this one's short. It felt very very separate from the next one, so...

Slightly PG13, kids! ^^

And the Gaelic begins...

Ta tu go hiontach—'You're wonderful' :giggle:

Póg mo thóin—'kiss my ass'


Cath had heard that it was uncomfortable for some women when pregnant to sleep on their backs. She disagreed; she could lie on her back…or her side…or her other side…or pressed in a tangle of arms and legs into Paul’s body as she was now, sleepily satisfied he didn’t have to get up with the morning light. She buried her head against his naked shoulder and he stirred then fell back into heavy sleep, unconsciously holding her tighter. She propped herself up on her elbows and kissed him very slowly; he popped awake, loosely kissing her back. “Morning,” Cath chuckled, running her hand through his hair, then swung her legs over the side of the bed and clambered back with something clutched in her fist. Bono was blinking awake by this time, sitting up with a weary, happy grin. Faint fingers of light ran across his bare torso and his eyes that sought Cath. He had wondered what it was she was hiding, but she had hidden it successfully to show him in the morning. He shivered as the cold silver wire on her third finger shocked against his hands that enveloped hers.

“What is it?” Paul asked again, confused and impatient and still half-asleep. His attempts to pry her fingers open were unsuccessful, so he caught her hand by the wrist and kissed the thin skin there.

“Be a good boy!” Cath laughed, the sound vibrating through her on a level a little like light; Paul was becoming attuned to her voice. Sometime over the past few months it had wrapped around a stubborn part of his mind and lodged firmly in his body, the faint half-heard memories of her singing coming occasionally to mind.

The look in his eyes was anything but that of a ‘good boy’, and no wonder. He leaned forward, forgot about whatever she was going to show him, and kissed her with all the heat in his body. Revealing whatever it was would have to wait for a few more minutes.

“Paul?” she asked, settling closer to him, the skin of their upper bodies touching with a little whisper of heat. She could feel him nodding. “What?”

Looking intently into his eyes, she gave a half-smile. “Are we engaged?”

He blinked, staring intently back, and nodded, unable to stop his own smile. She caught his arm with a thin, insistent one of her own, the faint scars brushing patterns over Bono’s skin, and he felt another small cold kernel of metal shock against his hand. He looked down, his chin settling on top of her head, and saw a little wire ring on his own hand, like the one she had.

“I thought we might be needing another,” Cath stated, lingering against him for a long moment before throwing his shirt over her body and making for the bathroom, a slightly lengthened task with Bono practically glued to her, unable for the moment to speak. She pushed him a couple inches away; he settled on the floor while she drew a bath, leaning on one elbow and still completely naked save for his underwear; he was very, very distracting. And yet it was this boy who could seem so thoughtful at the same time.

Cath sighed contentedly, lowering herself into the bath and closing her eyes; water gave a sort of warm weightlessness, matched by Paul’s presence.

“It’s nice to have you home,” she told him; he had come up behind her and was massaging her shoulderblades, which felt wonderful. All tension in her body eased. He spoke, for now, through his hands, and then through his lips, warm as the water against the back of her neck. This pulled her out of her thoughts, and she made a little noise between contentment and complaint, “Paul…

He pulled away grinning and motioned for her to move forward. She did so, rolling her eyes and at last settling back against this very wet man who held her, his hands trailing down her sides and resting comfortably over her belly. He could feel the little heartbeat like communication, from his fingertips. There they lay still, silent for a while, thoughts drifting in and out of their minds, until the water cooled and both emerged dripping.

Cath, wrapping a towel around herself, suddenly smiled mischievously and looked at Paul. “Ta tu go hiontach,” she commented. He had no idea what on earth she was saying, although the way she said it was rather intoxicating.

“You know I don’t understand, don’t you, love?”

She gained a calculating look in her eye for a moment, her expression growing absolutely evil. “Really, nothing? Póg mo thóin?” she tested. Judging by his blank expression, he did not know any of the profanity either.

She shook her head and laughed incredulously as he groaned. “Edge told you, didn’t he?” he guessed correctly about where she figured his ineptitude out.

“Well, I could have figured out on my own, but yes, he did,” she answered. He sighed and grabbed the towel she held, vigorously rubbing the water off his body, which made his hair stand on end. Cath had to try very, very hard not to laugh. He dropped the towel, changed, and slid down the wall to sit with an embarrassed, dejected look about him.

“I was wondering why you were back in school,” Cath continued. “This makes sense but…really, Paul, what self-respecting…” she trailed off, shoulders shaking, too amused.

“That class is the only reason I have to go away every bloody day! If it was my choice, I wouldn’t,” he confessed, stating the obvious. “And I really can’t concentrate on Gaelic with all that’s going on.”

“Once again,” Cath said, “stop worrying. And…I think I have a good solution for this,” she proposed. He looked unconvinced before a slow smile started across his face. “Do you, now?”

“Well, I know Gaelic,” she explained, grinning. “I’ll make you pay attention.”

Oh, will you? and how will you accomplish that? his mischievous expression asked her.

“And I was so looking forward to doing nothing this afternoon…”

“Oh, it’ll be far from nothing,” she said seriously.

The first few lessons did very little, Cath throwing all sorts of phrases at him he had no idea the meaning of. He practically broke down and cried before she relented, sighed, and started him on the very basics only, “so you can understand at least who’s being talked about, if you’re being yelled at, and the way the sentences work.”

He seemed more stressed than usual, Cath noticed, even on the weekend; he had his head buried into his crossed arms against the table, practically asleep in the middle of the afternoon. Whatever insecurity he had about the language wasn’t that; underneath it, he had some other concern that made everything impossible. She left him where he rested and quietly stepped out of the house, challenging the gravity of her body by walking at a furious pace until the half-open door was only a little speck in the distance, then walking back, the ground measured beneath her, and wondering what on earth was on Paul Hewson’s mind.

"Ssh, baby," she whispered, pressing her lips to the back of his neck. He stirred from the kitchen table, yawned, and stood up, crushing his senseless exhaustion, anger, happiness into her with his lips.

"Now, what's I?" she asked him, stepping away. He made a face, searching within his memory, and came up with nothing. "And you?" she pressed.

"That's tu," he answered tightly, with a sort of weary frustration, his face red. "Tusa," she corrected. But she could tell he was exhausted from everything she had tried to bring into his mind.

"Okay. We'll finish later. For now, I'm going to sleep."

"Oh, we don't need to sleep..." Bono began, the indignant expression on his face transforming into that boyish charm he had, his tension lessening. The tension went away entirely in the long while that followed. They didn't make it up to the bedroom; instead, she fell against the couch, and he lay along her body, their clothes feeling like nothing, and they kissed slow and long, their mouths doing what their bodies wanted to.

He wasn't really mad at her; he was too gentle in all but words, he cared too much if she looked hurt by anything he said to ever be angry with her. He was just frustrated and worn out from the last long two days. There had been little respite from Gaelic, the lessons perhaps even more frustrating with Cath than at school, since he actually had to face her and know he was doing everything wrong. She was patient, she instructed him calmly—but it was too much at once.

He laughed and said something about there being no more of Gaelic for the rest of the day, and she agreed breathlessly, staring up into his eyes and twining her arms around his. She could not think, for the moment, enough to speak in anything more than a monosyllable. It was only when they fell asleep, still on the couch, that she whispered her contentment, and he did not care what language it was.
Hehehe :) it was little. What else could it be?

and I would be a fabulous director; I do the 'fade out conveniently; no there's nooothing risqué going on' quite a bit, hahaha
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