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For fuckin_rope...

[From Here]

At her doorstep, she chucked a twenty at the driver and practically pulled Conner from the backseat of the cab and onto her porch. Fumbling for her keys, it took what felt like way too long to unlock her door before she was able to yank him inside.

Dropping her coat on the table in the hall, she let her purse follow, then unclipped her service weapon and set it high in the closet. "Regulation," she murmured.

Her badge was still clipped to her waist, but she wasn't worried about it at the moment. At the moment, she was worried about Connor's hands and their relation to her body.

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Connor grunts slightly as he curls into the warm body, desperately trying to shy away from the annoying stream of sun peeking in from the window and breath in the light smell of his companions hair, but slowly wades into consciousness when she makes a light sound in her sleep, which dashed the idea it was just a nice dream that he was using to ignore Murph's snorin.
He pulls away slightly, his eyes widening when he sees a familiar head of red hair and vaguely remembers shagging in nearly every corner of her apartment last night.
"Ah fuck me."

So used to waking up alone, Claire's not prepared for the arm around her waist or the warmth pressed up against her back. It doesn't all register, though, not until the warmth pulls away.

And then talks.

It's the familiar Irish accent that causes her eyes to fly open and look down at the arm around her waist. The words bring back a rush of memories and, ironically, her response to that very same statement the night before. She groans audibly and puts a hand over her eyes, thankful that she rarely gets hungover. Then she drops that hand to the one around her waist and attempts to move it. Looking over her shoulder, she gives Connor a look.

"You can't be here."

Connor's response is a moderately comical offended look and a huff. "An what about ye? Ain't supposed t' be waking up ta a ginger!"
His voice is thick with sleep, accent making it sound more growling then normal.

"This is my house," she reminds him, and she's actually kind of teasing, before she shifts so that she's still got his arm around her, but now they're facing each other. And still naked. Dear Lord, weren't there any clothes around? "Oh, my- My car is still at McGinty's."

She closed her eyes and groaned.

He slaps a free hand to his face as the other arm still wrapped around her waist unconsciously starts to trail his fingers up and down her spine.
"Fuck me."
His vocabulary is suffering-not just because of the side splitting hangover, the fact that he shagged his high school sweetheart, or even the fact that's he's but ass naked under that sheet and Murphy will never let him live this incident down, nope; it's all because her side of the covering is riding temptingly low and he just so happens to be a very red-blooded male.

The way his fingers are trailing up and down her back, something she's always found both arousing and soothing, cause her to arch even closer to him. She comes in contact with the very reason he's swearing again and she groans again, this time because she's not completely immune, either.

Her voice is low and husky, both from the sleep and the fact that she's pressed up against this particular naked man. "Jesus, Connor. You're insatiable."

His Adams apple visibly bobs in his throat, hands reflexively wrapping around her hips as he closes the distance between them, clearly not thinking clearly as a naughty smile graces his handsome face-ignoring the part of his head screaming various levels of 'BAD IDEA CONNOR MACMANUS'.

Because drunk sex with an ex can be explained away. Morning after sex is just a bad idea all around and this?

Fuck it. Claire doesn't care the second his hands are on her again. Her mind remembers the night before mixed in with the memories of years past and she's got one leg up around his thigh so she can roll him over on his back. She straddles him carefully, easing down on him slowly, the smile on her face showing him that she likes it just as much in the morning as she does at night.

Connor's head is thrown back, automatically shutting out that little annoying voice that sounds suspiciously like his Ma telling him how bloody stupid this is, because damn it she's still gorgeous and the sex is still undeniably fantastic.

The last person that Claire's gonna think about is his ma, her ma, his brother (OH GOD) or anyone else but him. She's going to concentrate on just how good he feels as she drags her nails lightly down his chest before she leans over and kisses him. It doesn't matter that her hair's falling in their face, or that she's starting to feel the cool morning air on her backside, she just wants to feel him deeper inside of her than before.

Connor wraps his hand in the loose hair, moaning against against her lips as he freely and gladly drags the other to grip her hips, meeting her with every movement of her hips.

If she's not sore and bruised after the last twelve hours, it's going to be a miracle. Not that she cares, not even a little bit. She's grinding her hips against his, hands on the bed above his shoulders and when she comes, she collapses against him.

Draping her body over his, she breathes hard. There's so much she could say, it's easier if she doesn't.

Connor's breathing is heavy against her neck, hands still placed on her lower back and hair.
Damn it all where are his pants? The naked is not helping the situation at hand.

She's gotta get out of his grasp and manages to do just that by sliding to the side and pulling the sheet with her. "Connor, you gotta keep your hands to yourself. If you don't, we're just gonna end up against a wall or in the backseat of my car."

It's meant to sound like a complaint, but falls a little flat.

He makes a slight groan of protest and drags his hands through his hair, ruffling the already spiky cut into an unbelievable case of bed head and sex hair. Pulling downwards on his cheeks he glances around the room, and spots his pants.
Taking a glance at her he begrudgingly leaves the bed and gives her quite the view as he pulls them on-his back to her as he finds himself at a loss to where his shirt went.
Turning back around he rocks on his bare feet.

Two can play that game and she drops the sheet as she gets out of bed and walks naked across the bedroom, shaking long red hair over her shoulders as she grabs a white blouse out of the closet to go with the light gray slacks hanging on the chair in the room.

An innocent smile graces her lips as she ducks into the master bathroom and there she finishes getting dressed before exiting back into the bedroom, hoping he's found the rest of his clothes.

Connor was still looking for his shirt, shoes in hand, rosary dangling on his neck, and socks on his feet-but still increasingly shirtless and trying not to think about what a damned goddess she looked like walking but ass naked around the apartment.

Claire reaches behind the headboard and lifts his shirt, tossing it to him with a wink before she bends down and grabs her shoes, slipping her feet into them. Her badge goes onto her waistband and she smiles up at him as she pins her hair up.

"You're like a fuckin' woman, getting ready in the morning, Connor." She's teasing. "I got this case that's driving me batty, though, and I should have been in right about now. I'm gonna have to pick up my car later. Mike's gonna give me so much shit for this..." And then she mutters, "Fuckin' Saints."

Connor stops mid way as he was pulling his shirt on, making him look like some hilarious version of a human turtle.
Shaking his head he finishes pulling it back on and hops around as he pulls on a shoe. "Ye say yer investigatin the Saints?"

She finishes putting up her hair and nods, watching as he struggles with his shirt. "It's why they brought me back. Boston PD was lookin' for people familiar with the town. VBPD offered me up and I came home."

Claire shakes her head. "Couple of fly-by-night vigilantes doing what they think is right for the city." She sighs.

"An what do ye think of 'em?"

"Think?" She leans back on the bed, wasting time she doesn't have, to give him a contemplative look. "Orders are to arrest on sight."

A moment passes and she sits up again, reaching for her keys and heading for the hall closet, calling over her shoulder. "I don't know, Con. It's not that simple, nothing ever is, you know? What about you? What do ya think of 'em?"

"There doin good, puttin bad men to their graves t' be judged and protectin those they'd be terrorizing on the streets. They keep the peace, even if it's through the mean a' killin."

"That still makes 'em murderers," she pointed out. Her gun and holster went to her hip, too, and she motioned to the front door. "Let's go, MacManus."

"Murderin with a purpose."

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