A/N: So, I was looking at the archive page here and I was like, oh look, Valerie E Mackin posted that one shot from the dual challenge (challenge duel?). SHIT! I need to post mine! So here it is. You've obviously read hers (if you haven't, go there now, or after, just make sure you read it); these two pieces are complimentary to one another and I couldn't be happier with the way they turned out. Valerie issued a challenge with the prompts: 'Pissed off Murphy' and 'blowing off steam after a bar fight', but the deal was that I needed to give her two prompts back. So I asked for 'Pissed off OFC' and 'OFC blowing off steam after a bar fight.' I'm so happy that this exercise helped us both out with our respective arcs. Can't wait to see where she goes with hers, have been loving every morsel. Ean Beag will be updated within the next few hours, so please be sure to circle back and read that, too.

This is Murphy / OFC. Not part of the Ean Beag universe although the redhead is being developed for use in the Connor-centric follow-up that I'm already planning. This is left open at the end for possible further smuttiness. Valerie, you're so right…poor Murph has been ridden hard and put away wet these days…

There's a moment, right before the incoming fist connects with Murphy's jaw, where he thinks about all the things he'd like to say to the redhead who is standing in his peripheral vision. Then, he's blasted with pain and his head rocks to the side with a flash of light. It doesn't take him long to recover, though, and even though he can feel the cut forming on his lip and taste the blood oozing from it, he delivers a solid uppercut that knocks his opponent down, unmoving, and effectively silences the crowd.

He blinks the sweat from his eyes and shakes his dark hair back, drawing the sleeve of his sweater over his lip before spitting a wad of bloody saliva on the ground next to the jackass that started the fight. Said jackass had, according to the redhead, said some pretty rude things while Murphy was at the bar procuring more beer, and the words 'not interested' apparently weren't in the asshole's vocabulary, either.

Murphy had been stopped about three feet from where his redheaded date was sitting, someone calling out his name and asking how he and his brother were faring lately. Murphy was raised properly: polite and patient (unlike Connor who could be boisterous and fidgety), and so he had paused to chat and update the acquaintance.

He hadn't heard every single word the slimy fucker had uttered to his date, but when he picked up 'carpets matching the drapes,' he excused himself and moved to his table, shouldering the asshole out of the way and placing the redhead behind him. Murphy had been calm at first, trying to get the guy to ease off and walk away. The dark MacManus twin wasn't interested in a fight tonight and he was trying to give the other guy the benefit of the doubt. That guy was probably drunk, and while Murphy would never say something so disrespectful to a woman, booze-induced or not, he had said some fairly salacious things to the fairer sex that hadn't always ended well. But he drew the line at saying said things to women who were clearly out with someone else; this little fucker he was now sizing up had seen Murphy and the redhead enter the bar; and had eyeballed Murphy for half the night.

He hadn't thrown the first punch; he rarely did. That was Connor's move. The first punch hadn't even connected; he swung away from it easily and shot the guy a steely glare, eyebrow raised, daring him to do it again. There were nervous twitters from those seated closest. They were regulars; they knew that you did not throw a punch at a MacManus without suffering the consequences. Murphy had uttered the word, 'outside', because he wasn't about to start something in Doc's bar, and the crowd had followed.

The gentle touch of a hand on his arm brings him back to the moment and he turns, snapping his gaze to the hand that clutches him, following it up the slender arm to shoulders grazed with loose red waves and finally to her green and gray eyes.

"You okay?" she mutters, concern washing over her delicate features.

Murphy shrugs. "Aye, I think so." But he knows better. He's vibrating, adrenaline dumping and kicking him into overdrive. He's sure she can feel the slight tremble in his limbs beneath her hands.

She does feel it, but she sees it too, barely checked in his hot blue gaze, the firm line of his mouth which is usually laughing and smiling when he's this close to her. He tries to turn, to gently pull from her grasp, but she won't have any of it.

Her hand is a warm, heavy reminder of why he got into this fight. He doesn't regret it, regret, he discovered, and guilt, were self-inflicted emotions that he paid little attention to. He knew right from wrong, and at that moment, the thick feeling coursing through him didn't have anything to do with the guy laid out on the pavement. The feeling was misplaced, it didn't have any immediate use, and when he closed his eyes, all he could muster were images of her, of the two of them naked, her legs wrapped tight around his hips and his hands full of soft copper waves as he twisted her to his liking. Connor calls it a kink, Murphy tries to play it off as an overactive imagination. But Murphy also knows that his twin sometimes knows him better than he does himself.

"Murphy," she says, this time a little more firmly. She waits until his eyes focus on hers once more and this time she sucks in a cautious breath. His nostrils flare hotly, his eyes take in her lips, her throat, her breasts and thighs, and then slide sinuously back up until he's right there, taking up all of her thoughts. She hears herself gasp, feels herself tugged sharply forward so that her heels skitter on the sidewalk and Murphy's hands close on a wrist and her hip, holding her steady.

"We need to go," he growls.

Her thighs rub together as the very tip of his tongue flashes out and touches the corner of his upper lip before gliding along the edges of his teeth. She nods slowly and mutely. Something is slightly askew with the Irishman, not anything she needs to be worried about, but it does make her anxious. Murphy would never hurt her intentionally, he would never put her in danger knowingly, but there's something in his voice and the way he's looking at her that makes her feel vulnerable. It's a rush of blood in her veins, roaring in her ears, and she can see herself being bent to his every whim. It makes her pace – and her heart – quicken.

Hail Mary, full of grace, his mind repeats for the eighth time. His hands clench at his sides; he doesn't trust them to not reach out and pull her roughly to him. It was something ingrained in him, something that stretched back through thousands of years of murky history and half truths. In some past life he guessed he had been a warrior, one who identified with hound and bear and eagle; the primitive notion of want, take, have is swelling in the back of his mind. He wants this woman who walks with him, wants her in all ways, he barely suppresses the urge to take; to have this woman, that roaring bear-warrior tells him, will quell the heat in his belly and satisfy them both.

He watches her walking with him, her eyes fixed ahead, her scent on the warm Boston air, her long legs trodding gracefully on the pavement, heels clicking in time with his heart. He knows she can feel his gaze on her; her pale skin flushes at her throat and no doubt the tops of her breasts. Her fingers twist through the waves of her hair and tug on her earring, and her teeth worry that full bottom lip that is the color of wild strawberries and tastes twice as sweet.

He doesn't remember pushing her back into the wall. Later, sometime before dawn, she will lay next to him as his fingers slide gently through her hair, and she will tell him the things he had whispered hot against her mouth: dirty, filthy demands that had turned her into a trembling, wanton thing that resembled her.

Somewhere from the back of his mind he watches his hands push her shoulders back roughly, and then slide down the front of her coat, opening it and pushing it back from the pale gray silk that covers her high, firm breasts. He can see the pulse in her throat; the dip between her collarbones is damp, dewy and sweet, and his tongue laps at the sweat there as his hands fumble with first her pants and then his. The baser part of him, that thrumming blood of old, is driving him blindly, and he needs to take the edge off here, now. If he doesn't, he's afraid of what he might do when they finally make it back to the flat.

Patient and persistent, Murphy can turn a simmer into a blistering burn and then fan the coals for hours before blowing over them to set flames to limbs. She's spoiled; her girlfriends have told her has much when she confides over chocolate and too many martinis. Now, in the dark street, pressed solidly between the brick of his chest and the brick of the wall, her eyes slip shut at the quick flash of strong fingers against her. He grazes her clit roughly, presses first one and then two fingers inside to pump slowly.

She's not quite ready, but he doesn't quite care. The only sounds coming from her are heated gasps, little whimpers between her panting, and the way she clutches his hair and presses her other palm back against the wall only encourages him. She'll take him. It's a tight fit, hot and intrusive, and she whines up to the darkened sky as he rocks against her with a grunt.

Patient and persistent, Murphy's stamina is unmatched by any other man she's been with. Sometimes she gets there and he doesn't, most of the time he makes sure she takes off a handful of times before he finally sinks deep and lets go. When he picks his head up and kisses her roughly, his teeth in her lip warn her: this isn't over by a long shot. With a pained growl he comes, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her hips. He withdraws quickly and tugs his clothing back into place before righting hers and she doesn't care that her panties are now soaked with a combination of him and her. She feels marked. She feels alive.

"Murphy."

He hears something that sounds like her voice, but it is thick and dark and almost as unsteady as his hammering heart. He can see the unchecked lust in her eyes, matched with his, and he grunts his claim against her lips before kissing her firmly: "Mianach."

She nods, not understanding the Gaelic proclamation, but the urgency behind it. She lets him peel her away from the wall and drag her behind him.

"Ba choir duit a fhágáil, deartháir."

Connor looks up from the paper and sees Murphy darkening their doorway, the redhead's hand clutched close in his. She's practically wrapped around his back, a flushed and skittish expression on her face. His brother's voice is low and unyielding. Connor knows. He's only seen it a handful of times, seen Murphy so determined that it takes him over. He knows and he grins inwardly, looking to the redhead's eyes. Murphy would never even dream of taking someone against their will, but it is the white knight beneath the surface that makes Connor check for the girl's acceptance. She is too busy staring at Murphy to notice the other twin's scrutiny and it is good enough for Connor. He nods, stands to grab his jacket and smokes, and heads for the door.

"I'll be at Doc's," he says by way of farewell.

When the door closes and it's just the two of them, Murphy shrugs out of his coat and she does the same, shifting in her heels. Lighting a cigarette, he looks at her from over his shoulder and sees her uncertainty.

"Hey," he says quietly, crossing to where she stands on still-shaking legs. "I didn't mean ta…"

"Yes, you did," she nods firmly. "I don't mind."

"M'not mad at you," he clarifies.

"I know," she presses with a nod.

His next words resemble a warning. "But I am pissed off, aye?" He sees her nod and he does it, too. Smoke streams out of his parted lips. "Can't seem ta shake it." His shoulders shift with bound emotions. "Can't control it," he mutters with another shake of his head. His blue eyes find her. "You'll tell me if ya can't take it?"

Her fingers slip the buttons of her blouse open and the flimsy thing flutters to the floor, forgotten. She steps out of her heels, knocking her down to five foot eight, and Murphy watches as she answers with more and more of her nakedness. When she's standing before him completely bare he moves to her, eyes flitting over every lean curve, her tiny, pink, biteable nipples, the small thatch of red between her thighs. Her eyes are like the Atlantic on the coldest day in December.

She finds herself on her knees, Murphy's hands busy in her hair and with his fly, cigarette dropped and crushed underfoot. Holding her firmly, he yanks his jeans open, letting them fall past his hips. She needs no encouragement and merely looks up into his eyes as she leans forward, her lips parting to take him into her mouth.

She's the best at this, falling to her task almost greedily and it makes him hiss through his teeth. He shifts his hips. Her mouth burns him, her hands fall to his thighs, and then to his belly, pushing his sweater up and out of the way so that her tongue can glide hotly over the sensitive skin there. Her fingers circle his cock at the root and reach to grasp the tightening weight of his balls. The eagerness of her tongue and the firm suction of her mouth make him shut his eyes and just feel. Her hair slides like silk through his fingers; when her teeth scrape along the underside of his shaft he grips her copper tresses and tugs sharply.

"Not yet," he mutters, drawing his hips back so that only the tip of his turgid length is engulfed by her mouth. She knows using her teeth will have him blowing his load down her throat. She's a glutton for his cock, but he won't give it to her yet. He likes the way her eyes flutter closed as he cups her jaw and brushes his fingers over the bulge in her cheek. He tells her that she is beautiful like this, for him, and a blush goes from her scalp to the tips of her breasts. She falters and he slips from her mouth, her breath panting against the wet, firm flesh before her. He heaves a throaty groan and helps her to stand because he wants to kiss her mouth and then kiss her between her thighs.

The taste of what he knows is him lingers where she is hottest and wettest, and her back arches sharply as he doesn't tease and torment like he usually does. His mouth is sharp against her and she tastes copper in her mouth as her teeth catch her tongue. He glances up her twisting torso and when her hand clamps over her mouth, his lips come away in a wet, obscene sound, and he leans up over her to tug her hand away. "I want ta hear ya," he husks before kissing her again, his tongue plunging against hers and slicking her flavour over her lips. He is gone again, leaving her gasping from the kiss, keening from the hot trail his mouth leaves behind. Once more, he settles between her thighs and attacks.

His name comes out in a warbled cry and echoes around the emptiness of the flat. It makes him harder, makes him hum against her and dig his fingers in. He pitches forward, his mouth leaving her, leaning over her with one hand as he searches deep inside for that one spot that makes her scream and come sweetly. A few expert strokes later he finds it, hooks his fingers against it, rubbing her inside as his thumb grinds against the tiny pearl of her clit. His rough voice praises her pinkness, reminds her that it's his, that she comes hard for him and demands she tell him when she's ready to explode. His hand is a blur between her thighs; his voice is a blur between her ears, and her head arches back so that she's staring up at the window that sits between the mattresses on the floor. Her breath hitches and pitches, her hips bouncing up with each hook and drag of his fingers. Her fingers claw the sheets, the pillow, her own hair, her thighs, this maddening thing unfurling and burning inside of her. Her next moan is choppy, full of want.

He watches her fall apart and really, there is nothing better. She is almost in tears, begging and sobbing, her hands grasping anything she can hold onto. When her fingers close on her own nipples, rolling and pinching, he tilts his hand just so, jerks her hard, and groans as she detonates.

There is a ringing in her ears, a rush of blood to her brain and she tries to twist away but Murphy holds her down and rips two more climaxes from her as tears stream down her face. She's never been so high so fast and when he finally relents and eases her back down, his lips hover at her ear, murmuring his satisfaction and his thanks. There is a deep emptiness inside of her when he moves away, but she is grateful for the chance to catch her breath and sip the whiskey he holds out to her.

He moves and lights a cigarette, leaning against the table to watch her spine as she shifts and twists around enough to peek over her shoulder at him. "Feel any better?" she asks, one copper eyebrow arching up.

Licking his lips in response, he lets his gaze blatantly wander over her naked back, lingering on the swell at her hips and buttocks. With his cigarette between his teeth, he beckons with one finger. "C'mere."

She stands, swaying slightly from overused legs and a heavy dose of whiskey. She teeters as she turns, the bottle swinging from her fingers and bumping against her thigh with every other sway of her hips. She stops in front of him, looking up at him from under her lashes. "What?" she asks softly.

He growls and slips his hands to her hips, tugging and pushing her until she's the one against the table. "No, here," he murmurs as he ducks his head, sliding his tongue up behind her ear and lifting her up onto the flat surface. As his hands glide down her thighs, he feels the violent tremors there, a product of her last orgasm. "Feck, yer still hummin', lass," he groans, pushing her knees out and back. Reaching down, he takes hold of his cock, shoving his jeans out of the way once more before leaning over her. One roll of his hips and he's lined up, sliding through the heat and silk of her gloriously wet cunt. "Ah," he gasps, and then hisses through his teeth. Her clit is swollen, and he feels the hard pearl of it glancing against the head of his cock with each plunge.

She is shamelessly wet, and every nerve is on fire. With his next pass she raises her hips and reaches between them, grasping the open edges of his fly and holding it steady as her hips drop down. The reaction she gets is a startled gasp, followed by a moan, and his lips seal over hers. Her whimpers meet each sound out of his throat. He pumps shallowly at first, her abrupt tightness sending little bursts of pleasure coursing through his body. When he pulls back from their kiss, her eyes are wide, pupils large and black as she stares up at him, a choked breath sailing out with every jolt of his hips. She arches back sweetly, her knees hugging his ribs, her hips raising against him, and her neck exposed so that with his next move, he dives deep, between her thighs and at her throat. His hands land on her ass and pull her up to meet him.

She grabs and pulls at him, too, tearing him down and digging her nails into his sweater and through to his shoulders. She bites him, claws at his hair and tugs sharply. With a grunt he fights her off, pulling her hands from him and pushing her down until she's flat against the table. "Stay," he murmurs with a wicked grin, squeezing her wrists where he's stretched them up over her head. Her back bows up from the table, but otherwise she doesn't move, and she lets him haul her ass to the edge of the surface and hook her knees over his elbows. As he leans down, he slips from her tight heat and though he mourns the loss and she howls in protest, soon she is panting, keening at the ceiling as he assaults her breasts with teeth and tongue.

She is firm under his mouth, sweet and plump, like raspberries, and he bites at her, soothing the sting with wide laps of his tongue and gentle pressure from his lips. His hand explores her other nipple, plucking the turgid peak and pinching it, rolling it, before he grabs hold of her breast and steadies it under his flickering tongue. Her voice is a riot of swearing and cursing, hissing sighs and pleading moans. He binds her with knots of pleasure until she is tense and his fingers sweep back down and find her tight. He chuckles, murmuring about her sweet cunt and asking her if she's wet for him. She tells him yes.

"Let me fuck you," he breathes against her jaw as his hands tangle in her hair. His body arches with hers, the thin cotton of his sweater against her breasts and the rough denim of his jeans at her naked belly and thighs. In the quiet of the loft, his belt buckle clangs and clips the edge of the table as he moves over her. Her heat and wetness soak against him.

His request triggers something in her and she hears the undercurrent of a demand. Her body is a livewire, and it sparks with every movement and sound from the man above her. She knows this will not be sweet and gentle, like he can be and like he often is. He wants to fuck, and he wants her to take it, to ride out whatever storm is coursing in his heart and his limbs, and when she nods with a shaky breath, he affords her another kiss, this one lingering and soft, the last bit of tenderness before that tough and gruff bear warrior from long past takes over him and takes over her. He sinks into her then, squeezing into her, and he pauses with a breath, his blue eyes flickering down at her. His first movement draws a moan from her and he bucks hard, the tip of his tongue tasting the corner of his mouth and her sharp, lingering sweetness.

She is pliant, not passive, and though she lets him move her to his liking she is vocal about what he's doing to her. A tug on her hair and a sharp hand to the back of her thigh makes her cry out hoarsely, her body arching harder under him. She pushes up on her shoulders with a rasping grunt as he arches her hips higher with his hands. When he pushes into her this time, it's tighter, a clutch in her belly he feels as he pushes past her sharp, breathy wails, and he is relentless until his pelvis is flush against her ass and she is choking on her words. Foolishly, she asks for a moment, for him to wait, but he only hums. She knows better than to ask him to back down now. Instead he slides out and back in again, catching her jaw as she arches up, her back into his chest. He holds her there, his fingers slipping into her mouth and gliding over her tongue, her teeth snaring the tips.

She can taste herself on his fingers; they fall from her lips and trail down in a searing hot path until his fingers close around the slippery bud of her clit. This time, she screams, and Murphy moans softly at the way her nipples harden and her throat and cheeks flush with more blood. On their own accord, his hips being to churn as his eyes widen and devour more of her welcoming body. He strokes relentlessly, mindlessly, his head falling back, a damp sheen of sweat on his shoulders and the small of his back. In and out. Deeper and deeper. He concentrates on the sound of his panting, on his heartbeat, as his fingers scramble along her thighs to her hips, and then back down, squeezing and anchoring her as he rides her.

There is an ache in her hips, and between them. His head lolls back and then across his shoulder, and forgetting his earlier order of staying put, her hands move down and grip the edge of the table beneath her hips. Planting her heels firmly under her ass, she arches up with Murphy's next thrust and a chest-deep wail rolls out of both of them, and his sharpens to a breathy shout as his chin drops to his chest. He stares down at her, half a smile hovering on his lips. He nods and snarls through his smile. He hums again. "Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, c'mon, fuck me back, girl." With one hand on her hip and the other on the table beside her, he yanks her back onto his cock. Soon, she begins to moan sharply, a staccato rhythm with every plunge into her impossibly tight cunt.

Murphy huffs, licking his lips quickly and curling his elbows beneath her knees. "Get on yer hands," he sighs, waiting until she comprehends he's talking to her, and then following his instruction. Open, now, fully, beneath him, and she screams a warbled jumble of curses and his name. It's too much, he's riding her into the table, and her elbows ache and so do her hips, but she gapes up at him hotly as he works. The sight of him sweating, grunting and growling between her thighs makes her shiver, and she finds her clit, rubbing it as she stares up at him unabashed.

His tongue flashes out again, licking the sweat from his upper lip, and he flicks his dark hair from his forehead. He bores into her, with his body and his stare, and he knows that the look in her eyes is a reflection of his own. She shakes beneath him, her hand moving furiously, her eyes bright, her head nodding. "Yes," she hisses, wrenching her hips back up. "Yes, Murph…fuck…"

Murphy nods in agreement because what more can he say? Fuck yes, Fuck don't stop, Fuck, I'm going to come. He utters this last one hotly and it spurs her along. Hips crash into hips, pelvis to pelvis, the table creaks and protests; she shouts hoarsely and he moans high and hot. They don't know who comes first; it's not like it matters. They implode, collide, twisted, burning flesh, shattered breathing, angry gouges from nails and teeth and lips.

And then, all is quiet, save for their panting.

"Murph," she mumbles beneath him a while later.

He hums against her shoulder and shifts very slightly.

She winces as something beneath her digs into her back and she manages to move enough to heave Murphy to one side and scrabble her fingers under her hip. She comes up with a lighter and tosses it aside with a sigh before falling back down, her head thudding on the table.

When he next moves, his chin presses between her breasts and he looks up at her with an almost shy expression. "Hey," he mumbles, before pressing his lips softly to her still tingling skin.

Her reply is, "Ungh," and she heaves a heavy arm up and draws her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair with absent strokes.

He chuckles and shifts again, regaining his footing albeit shakily, and he takes her in, admiring his handiwork. "Ya look good like dat," he grins. "All naked and spent." His eyebrows jump up and down playfully.

She groans again and swings one long leg out to dig her toes into his thigh. "You didn't even take your pants off," she points out lazily, giving him another teasing shove.

He grins and catches her foot, holding it to his chest as his lips trace over the delicate bone of her ankle. "Still made ya come, didn't I?"

She snorts at this, the simple summing up of what he just did to her sounding absurd. A ripple of giggles flits out of her and only continues as Murphy arches one eyebrow mischievously and leans over her again. She sighs, and inhales deeply with a long stretch of limbs. "So if you weren't mad at me," she began, nibbling on her bottom lip.

"I was pissed off at that guy. Not jealous, like I said: jealousy would mean I don't know where you and I stand. No, I was pissed off because he didn't get the message. You're mine, you know."

"And you're mine?" she sings, ruffling his hair with her fingers once more.

"F'course," Murphy shrugs, pressing his lips to the smooth underside of her jaw.

"Is it that simple?"

His fingers slide along her hips and up her ribcage. "Why can't it be?"

She sighs and leans her head back. "It never is."

"So make this the exception," Murphy murmurs. He stands up and takes her hands, peeling her up off of the table and into his arms. "Take me ta bed, yeah?"

Her smile is sleepy, but her hands still manage to wrestle his sweater up and off of his torso. Her fingers trace the splash of freckles on his otherwise pale shoulders. "I'm tired," she says softly, glancing up into impossibly blue eyes.

"I'm not goin' anywhere," he grins.

She takes his hand and pulls him to his mattress. "All right," she shrugs. "You're here. At the bed." She gestures to it and he sprawls back willingly, raising his hips as he shoves his jeans and boxers down. "Now what?" she asks playfully.

Murphy's dark eyebrow creeps up once more. "Now? Ya make me yers."

Some Irish Translations:

mianach: Mine

Ba choir duit a fhágáil, deartháir: You should leave, brother