guh NYIH-huh KOO-nuh IHF-rin duh HYAHN

pronunciation gude and everything. Neat site.

So he might just say "Dia" or maybe "diabhal" for a quick curse.

There's a neat thing where, in some cultures, most curses/the worst curses are about religion; in others, they're about sex; and in others, they're about filth/bodily functions. I have no idea which medieval Ireland was, but that might be worth researching.

OK, no, I can't pull it off. She's Buffy.

Thanks. I was 90% sure because of the name, but that 10% was nagging at me.

Also, I'm an idiot - - what do Italians say when they're swearing by their mother?

"Mamma mia!"

I have no idea which medieval Ireland was, but that might be worth researching.

Lyra, I have been very carefully trying to stay away from the "You know, I bet Italian/whatever was different in 1498" thought. I'm getting obsessive enough about the languages.

It was just supposed to be a simple little "let's dress up the cute guys in nifty clothes and see what happens" fic.

Sorry, Connie. Didn't mean to give you homework.

Sure you are.

You know that in France the nastiest thing you can call a person is dirty cow. (Sal Vache)

(spelling may be wrong)

In Arabic, Son of a Dog (or Son of a Bitch) is a SERIOUS insult that will earn you a jolly good kicking. Apropos of nothing in particular. I know how to say it, but thus far haven't been brave/pissed off enough.

ion, random Faith/Willow snippet, unfinished:

Convenience

Willow is, quite definitely, not having a relationship with Faith. She knows this because she's been in relationships before, and this isn't a relationship. Relationships are with people you like, and trust, and who make your skin prickle hotly and your mouth curve into give-away smiles when you should be thinking about calculus or how to pierce demonic armour. Which, okay, maybe there's been some give away smileage, but – no. Relationships are something to delight in and talk about with your best friend for hours over ice cream floats. So long as your best friend isn't squicked about your lover's gender, or Reigning Queen of Rebound City. But – yeah. This definitely isn't a relationship. There should be a word in the dictionary for what this is – maybe an un-relationship, Willow thinks, like the un-birthday in Alice In Wonderland. Nothing official, nothing sanctioned, nothing public, just a celebration without cause. A secret revel without rhyme or reason. It's just – an arrangement, simply an unspoken arrangement of convenience that suits both of them down to the ground for now, with Kennedy away and Robin – well, Willow feels vaguely that she should have some compunction about Robin's feelings here, but it's an abstract thought, swiftly quashed whenever she feels the line of Faith's thigh pressing against her own in some cheap diner, or in the back of the car. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. And besides, there's nothing to know, really. This isn't a relationship, definitely. But it's making her whole body flush and tighten just thinking about whatever it is.

* * *

She isn't sure whether Xander's realised he's the centre of Andrew's world, or how he's going to feel about it when he does. They're sitting in another IHOP on the way to another infested town, and Willow's watching Andrew watching Xander like he's the biggest, strongest, sexiest and most downright heroic thing in this or any other plane of existence, while they discuss the comparative merits of Tim Drake and Dick Grayson. There's a smudge of pancake syrup on the corner of Xander's mouth, and Willow can see how much Andrew's aching to do something about it. His face is too transparent, and the shaky way he draws breath and licks his own lips tells its own story. She smiles, remembering how it felt to gaze at Xander with that desperate, hopeless longing. It feels like whole lifetimes ago, when she was another person and the world was simpler and less brutal. Or perhaps simply brutal in different ways.

It's strangely abstract, now, too, the thought of how she once burned to braid Andrew's intestines into a noose. Somehow Willow can no longer connect the memory of Tara and the pure horror of her murder with the fragile little idiot who's crushing so obviously on her best guy friend. He's so needy and eager to please, and while there is a part of her, deep down, that wouldn't balk at kicking a puppy – that would, in fact, eviscerate it slowly just for shits and giggles and feed the bloody chunks to its own mother before the corpse had cooled – still that's not a side of herself that she's on speaking terms with right now. Andrew is – well, pathetic, and she winces when she sees herself in him. But he's somehow, against all the odds, become a Scooby by default; and if she finds it odd that they've accepted him despite the fact that he did so much damage, she knows that there, but for the grace of the Goddess, or God, or even Xander – well, she's not big on throwing stones these days.

"Budge up, Red." She can't help the twitch of lust that Faith's voice sends through her now, and she wonders if her face gives her away as surely as Andrew's does him. Willow wiggles closer to the window and feels the warm press of Faith's thigh against her own as Faith and Robin arrive at the table. Robin slides in beside Xander, saying something about why they're late that Willow doesn't hear at all because Faith's hand is on her knee straight away, tugging at the fabric of her skirt until it slides high enough for Faith's fingers to find skin while she's perusing the menu with every appearance of interest. Xander is saying something about Batman, and Andrew is making an irritating slurping noise with his straw, and meanwhile Faith's bitten fingernails are dragging gently over Willow's knees and heading higher by the second. Willow stares at her unfinished pancake, trying to look nonchalant and horribly sure she is failing. She is already wet. She leans forward to hide Faith's reckless movement, traps her bottom lip between her teeth and bites down to keep the urgent hiss from escaping her mouth. Faith's hard fingers skim over her pale thighs and deftly cup Willow's warm flesh through the thin cotton of her panties. "What's everybody having, then?" Faith asks, and Willow could hate her for sounding so cool and chipper. She can feel sweat beading on her forehead despite the air conditioning. Faith slides a fingertip up and down the cotton and then pushes right inside Willow, panties and all. She shivers, torn between frustration and delight, and catches Andrew's briefly curious glance. Not here, she thinks, with what remnants of sanity remain. Not yet.

"I gotta pee," she says, awkwardly, offering a pink-cheeked smile of apology to the table and turning to look at Faith. "Sorry, I – can you – I've gotta go. Please? Now?"

Faith smirks. Fingers are gone as if they were never there, and Faith slides back out of the way. Willow straightens her skirt with shaking hands as she scoots out of the booth. Her legs feel like jelly. She walks away to the ladies' room and doesn't look back. Behind her, after a painfully long moment, she hears Faith's voice. "Yeah. Yeah, me too. Back in a second, guys – nature calls. Order me the steak and eggs, and some chocolate chip pancakes. Think I'm working up an appetite."

"That's my girl," Robin says wryly, as Faith follows Willow through the room. "Such a delicate creature."

* * *

Faith's skin is hot under the curve of her palm, and Willow has been getting to know her body by inches, snatching an illicit fumble or fuck behind corners and in dark alleys. Saving the world with Buffy was never like this, although sometimes Willow had wanted it to be.