A/N: This is my birthday gift to incog_ninja, first and foremost, and a treat for those of you who have been dying to see Murphy and Pamela (from my Éan Beag arc) together for some sexy times. I had originally intended for this to be a short little romp, but the more I wrote, the more angsty and sexy it became. For those of you who know my style and my likes and dislikes, I'm not a fan of songfic, but I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that I was mostly inspired by the Arctic Monkeys' most recent album 'AM', specifically the tracks 'Do I Wanna Know' and 'Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High'.
The title is Gaelic, meaning 'my possession'; according to a recent reviewer for 'Yours and Mine', there is no actual word for 'mine' (possessive) in the Gaelic language, and mo cheannsa / is liomsa thú are as close as you can get.
This takes place right after 'Getting Her Irish On', and was supposed to be an AU one-off, but sometimes things don't go according to plan. In this case, it's for the better. The ending may seem abrupt, but I think there will be some resolving of issues herein as I work on To the Bone.
Happy Birthday, incog_ninja! I'm so glad this worked out and that you love it as much as I do! I hope everyone else does as well.
Many thanks to Nmbr1Fanilow for taking a first look, pointing out my tiny spelling errors, and asking the questions that needed to be asked.
The church is dark, not unlike his mood. It is, however, silent, and for Murphy, it is deafening, as all the words and thoughts of her, the way she shouted and screamed and cried and pleaded with him, all rattled around in his brain. He was thankful for his brother's late shift at the plant. He was thankful for her double at the second hand store. He needed something to occupy his time, and as he had sat, silently self-flagellating on the couch, his fingers had twined into the smooth wooden beads of his rosary, sliding down until his fist curled around the little cross of steel and wood. The corners bit into his palm like a crude version of stigmata, and the pain brought him back to himself just a small bit – enough to know that he needed to get out of the apartment and away from his brother.
Away from her.
"Forgive me, Father, fer I've sinned. It's been…" he pauses, staring blankly at his palms, before his vision swims and he sees his hand landing smartly on the tanned, pert cheek of his brother's woman's ass. "Two weeks," he breathes hoarsely, "since me last confession." He waits a beat, gathering his nerve. "I've coveted that which belongs to me brother. A woman."
A throat clears, and on the other side of the screen, Father Macklepenny shifts in his robes. The priest knows the voice, and he knows the brother, and he knows the sin. "Have you had impure thoughts of this woman?"
Murphy smirks on his side of the screen and leans back against the wall, staring into the overhead light. "Father, I fucked her on me brother's bed." He snickers as Macklepenny mutters a quick Hail Mary, but he continues. In for a penny, and all that. "M'sorry about tha language, Father," he continues. "But that's not tha only place, aye?"
Macklepenny cuts him off. "You took this woman against her will?"
The question makes Murphy sink his teeth into his bottom lip and as he takes a deep breath, he's transported back to just the night before, when he'd pushed Pam against the door of her flat as soon as he'd arrived, under the guise of another language lesson. Instead, he'd fumbled with the buttons on her blouse as she'd tried to push his hands aside. When he'd become frustrated, he'd torn the garment from the waistband of her pants, tugged and yanked until it went up her torso, up her arms, to tangle around her wrists. The hook on the back of the door was a convenient trap, and he'd shoved her back against the door, slipping her bindings over the hook above her head. Though she'd yelped, clearly startled, her eyes had been blazing with astonished lust.
She hadn't said no, not once. Oh, but she'd fought him. He had the gouges from her fingernails on his shoulders to prove it.
"Nay," Murphy finally answers the priest. He chuckles flatly. "Surprised she wasn't in here t'day, confessin' her own transgressions. Lust. Greed. Christ, Father, she was wanton."
Another Hail Mary sounds from the priest's side of the screen, and the man of the cloth clears his throat sharply. Murphy knows it's a warning. He was known for going all out in the confessional, and all his sins poured out – blasphemy and cursing included. If he couldn't pour his soul out to Connor, then why not here, where he was meant to do so?
"I've lied to me brother, Father. I've lied to this woman, and I've lied to meself. I just…" Murphy paused with a frown. "I don't know what ta do. I'd ask me brother fer advice, but clearly, that isn't the best course of action." Once more, his thoughts swarmed back, back to the night he'd first kissed Pam. He'd whispered how badly he wanted her, how it was killing him to watch Connor take and take and take, not sharing, and not caring, either, for slighting Murphy's feelings. He'd held her fast against her kitchen counter, his fingers trailing through her hair as he'd whispered his desire against her lips. And when he'd kissed her, she'd turned pliable, molding against him, and pursuing the hard, heavy heat that was barely restrained beneath his fly. He'd kissed her roughly, but she'd marked him with her teeth in his bottom lip before pulling away with a startled gasp. She'd bid him get out, her voice husky with arousal.
He'd promised to return the next night that Connor was busy at work.
"D'ya know what ya do ta me, lass?"
The words are whispered in my ear as Connor moves over me, curling his fingers in mine.
My eyes slip shut tightly, trying to block out another voice, another brogue, the words almost identical. Girl, his brother had said. D'ya know what ya do ta me, girl?
Of course, Murphy had shown me, as Connor always did, but it was more than that. Connor would show me how I affected him, how precious I was to him, how he'd do anything for me.
Murphy, on the other hand, showed me how much he affected me, showed me how easily he found my deepest, darkest secrets, and how I'd do anything for him.
It had all started off so…I want to say innocently. I wish I could say innocently. But I'm not that naïve. Seated next to Murphy, confessing what Connor had said to me in the very blazing depths of passion, I'd seen the darker twin's blue eyes flare as he translated for me. I'd blushed. I'd shifted on my stool, seated there at Doc's bar, and later that night, when I'd gone home and tucked myself into my bed, alone for the first time since I'd met Connor, I'd touched myself where I'd grown hot and damp with every lilting syllable Murphy had spoken.
I imagined his voice, not Connor's jovial, flirtatious baritone, but Murphy's husky, throaty growl, calling me a dirty little girl. I craved his scent, that which had clung to his wool coat when I'd hugged him goodbye – cold and yet spicy, lingering somewhere in the shadows. It made my blood surge between my thighs when I told myself that he'd lingered a little too long for a friendly "I'm your boyfriend's twin brother' hug; I imagined his lips, and his teeth, and his tongue as I skated my fingers over my nipples, only to delve further, into slick, hot folds. I couldn't decided what I wanted more, and two-handed, I brought myself off, fucking myself with two fingers in a what I guessed was a horrible substitute for what I needed most, while I toyed the barbell through my aching clit with my other hand.
It wasn't nearly enough. I knew it wouldn't be.