A/N : So, this is the morning after 'Yours and Mine'. I was going to post it as the second chapter, but I figured it's so lenghty, it deserves its own spot. And that meant that I was able to pick out a new Murphy Icon. This won't be a single chapter, I've decided to break it up. It's completely written, but there may be a tweak here and there. I basically finished this with pitbullsrok in mind because she expressed worry that there wouldn't be any more Murphy/Wren lovin' in Ean Beag. I think I can squeak one more screw out of those two, but I hope you like the twist I've put in here.

This deals with light bondage / discipline. Yup. I've never read a fic on here with either of the boys tied to a bed (save for a brief interlude in my story 'Unlimited Blue'), so I wanted to give it a go. Tell me your thoughts. It's easy to view Murphy or Connor as the dominant, but I always wondered just how well one of them would sit up and beg. Will Connor get his chance to show off? Let me know!

As stated in 'Yours and Mine', the redhead (henceforth known as Sloane Bishop) is being developed for the follow up to Ean Beag. This story, however, is not a part of that arc.

Enjoy!

"What do you want for breakfast?"

Sloane Bishop opened her green and grey eyes and blinked up at Murphy MacManus, who was hovering over her with a mile-wide, crooked grin.

She hummed, closed her eyes, and stretched long and hard. Her back arched, dislodging the sheet and she heard Murphy clear his throat as the cold air of the flat pulled her nipples tight. She rubbed her thighs together. "Surprise me," Sloane purred.

"Nuh uh," Murphy smirked, swooping down to brush his lips over her collar bone, deliberately avoiding her breasts. "You decide. S'all about ya taday, Sloane."

"Pancakes," she decided without skipping a beat, her eyes still closed. Her fingers caught the thick dark hair at the back of his neck and pulled playfully.

"Hold dat thought," Murphy mumbled as he scrambled up to his feet and crossed to the kitchen.

Sloane heard cupboard doors banging and the fridge open before Murphy's voice floated back to her. "I think I can do dat," he informed. "But I don't know if we have syrup."

"Got lemon juice?" Sloane called from where she still waded in the sheets.

"Aye," Murphy called back after a quick check in the fridge.

"And sugar?"

"Yep," Murphy concluded.

"Then we're okay."

Murphy chuckled. "Oh, aye?"

"Aye," Sloane drawled, mocking the Irish brogue. "What time is it?"

"Uh…s'almost nine."

She cracked an eye open and rolled to her side, contemplating Connor's empty mattress. "Where's your better half?"

"Oi, watch what ya say, girl," he growled playfully.

"Sorry," Sloane apologized around a yawn. "Where's your older half?"

"Hey!" Murphy grunted, throwing a plastic measuring cup in her direction.

It pinged on the floor beside her head and Sloane snaked her hand out from under Murphy's blanket and grabbed it, inspecting it with curiosity. "What the hell is a pair of Irish brothers doing with measuring cups?"

Murphy was busy measuring flour, the tip of his tongue stuck in the corner of his mouth in concentration. "Don't know," he muttered. "Tink dey came wit' da place." He held up a whisk and turned to Sloane, waving it. "Most o'dis stuff did. Must have been Marta Stewart livin' here."

Sloane giggled, wrinkling her nose. "I do believe she would have done more to liven up the place." Sitting up, she grabbed the closest shirt she could, not knowing whether it was Murphy or Connor's, and not really caring, either. She sniffed it, decided it would have to do, and pulled it over her head. "Hanging clothes to dry, Murph – it's a good thing."

"Feck off," he pouted, turning back to his mixing bowl.

"How are you doing this without a recipe?" Sloane mused as she sidled behind the dark Irishman and set her chin on his shoulder. They were close to the same height, Sloane being but a scant inch or two shorter, and she wrapped her arms around his torso, snaking them under the apron he wore. "You look sexy in an apron, by the by," she whispered against his neck, placing a small kiss on a random freckle there.

Murphy shuddered and turned his head towards her, brushing his lips over her forehead. "Dat right?" he grinned. "An' I am followin' a recipe," he added. "It's in me head. Hand me dat Guinness, aye?"

Sloane snorted and reached one arm for the can as one arm continued to wrap Murphy's torso, her hand wandering up and down his chest and belly, tugging at the soft sprinkle of hair and snapping the elastic waist of his boxers before wiggling a fingertip in his belly button.

"Hey!" he squirmed as she mapped a decidedly ticklish spot. "Not while m'concentratin'," he scolded, slapping the back of her hand. She yelped, and shifted, pressing the hard little peaks of her breasts into his back through the thin cotton of the T shirt she wore.

Sloane snorted. "Right, because beer won't ruin your concentration."

"S'not fer me," Murphy sniffed, plucking the can from her fingers and cracking it open. He shot her another sly look over his shoulder before taking a healthy swig. He smirked at Sloane's noise of protest. "Okay, s'not all fer me," he amended quickly. He handed it to her with the instructions of 'just a sip'.

She smiled and took a gulp, and then another before handing the can back and watching as Murphy measure out a cup and dumped it in the bowl he was fixing. Sloane burped, and then started to giggle, and Murphy joined her. "Ya have deplorable manners, girl," he chided.

"You put beer in the pancakes!" Was Sloane's retort.

"Aye…dat's how Ma makes 'em."

Sloane narrowed her eyes and gnawed gently on Murphy's shoulder blade. "For some reason, I believe that."

"She dyes 'em green on Saint Patty's," Murphy added, shifting pleasantly under the redhead's ministrations.

"Of course she does," Sloane said, yawning once more. She licked her lips. "Don't suppose there's another one of those hanging around here somewhere?"

Murphy paused his whisking and turned around in the circle of her arms, hooking his elbows over her shoulders. Sloane's giggles returned, taking in the sight of Murphy's dark hair stuck up in the front and on one side, and a dusting of flour through his stubble.

"Ya know, if'n ya keep laughin' at me, yer gonna give me a complex," he pointed out with a delectable pout.

"The only complex you're going to get is the notion that you're the orgasm leprechaun."

It was Murphy's turn to laugh, snorting and chuckling, before he buried his nose in her sweet and smoky smelling hair. With a gentle kiss below her ear, he breathed against her skin. "Ya smell like tha pub," he declared, drawing out the last word so it sounded more like 'poob."

"Really? And here I thought I smelled like dirty sex."

Murphy pulled back, his blue eyes narrowed in challenge. "Didn't hear ya complainin' last night."

"What do you think I was screaming and moaning for?"

Murphy growled lowly in his throat, a grin on his lips, and he dove in, making Sloane squeal and wiggle in his arms. His teeth caught her earlobe and he tugged gently like a misbehaved puppy. Every time her hips bumped his, he grunted; her thighs brushed against him as she twisted in his grip. "Mmm, keep wigglin', girl, drives me feckin' bananners."

With a scandalized huff, Sloane pushed him back and crossed her arms over her chest. Her lips quirked as she arched a delicate copper eyebrow, and finally she nodded to the counter behind Murphy. "Pancakes. Now. Or I'll get angry."

Murphy licked his lips. "Promise?"

Sloane chuckled darkly. "You won't like me when I'm angry."

Murphy scowled. "D'ya hulk out, den?"

Sloane's stomach rumbled on cue and she sneered. "Maybe." Still, her eyes twinkled with mischief.

Murphy shuffled closer, biting his bottom lip, and Sloane couldn't help but stare at the sight. He had a sinful mouth; you wouldn't think it just by looking at him, but the way those lips looked snagged between his teeth – or hers – or wrapped around a cigarette, or wet with whiskey or pulling into a pout or his crooked grin – made panties melt. When Murphy's lips were involved in anyway, Sloane was certain that she could hear females in a ten mile radius sigh.

"What does dat mean fer me?"

Sloane's gaze swept up to his eyes and saw the challenge there. "Discipline. Maybe punishment. You're not averse to a light spanking, are you, Murph?"

He swallowed thickly, the sound audible in the sudden stillness of the flat, and his pupils widened. His head faintly shook in the negative. "Only one woman has ever struck me on me backside," he said, "an' she's a good tree-tousand miles away."

Sloane winked. "Then she won't mind me taking over for a bit."

Murphy gave another sound, this one somewhere between a grunt and moan, and he shifted where he stood. A gentle blush bloomed on his cheeks and he scratched the back of his head nervously.

"What's wrong?" Sloane whispered with a gleam in her eye.

Murphy coughed, and then cleared his throat, and stared long and hard at his bare toes on the linoleum. When he finally lifted his head, there was a look of trepidation mixed with curiosity on his face. "M'I supposed ta be turned on by dis?"

Sloane chuckled, and her smiled widened, and certainly brightened. "Oh, Murph," she sighed, sliding her hand up his arm, over the ink on his muscles, to finally stroke along his amazing shoulder and curl into his dark hair once more. Pressing up on her toes, Sloane brought her lips to his, and touched his mouth softly with hers. "Let's have breakfast," she breathed, while her other hand slid down the front of his apron. When she encountered the obviously straining bulge of his cock beneath the stiff cotton, she licked her lips and cupped him firmly, rubbing the heel of her hand against him until his breath shuddered out in a choppy moan. With a smirk, her tongue flashed out and tasted his bottom lip, just a little flash of velvet on his skin. "After," Sloane finished thickly, "we'll go to my place for dessert."