Little Red (mylittleredgirl) wrote,
Little Red

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Claire/Alex Cupid fic!

Remember two years ago when mspooh turned me into a flailing wreck of fangirliness over Joe Flanigan's guest stint in "Cupid" and his insanely perfect 'ship on said show? (No? That's okay. It sort of turned into sekrit underground fangirliness due to me and Winnie being A Fandom Of Two).

Know what I learned this week? There are OTHER PEOPLE OUT THERE who 'ship Claire/Alex! I AM NOT ALOOOONE! And they write really great porny happy fanfic and I am kind of dead of squeee!

(Pop quiz: who would you guess would have more interest in televised sex between Joe Flanigan and a career-woman brunette, Sheppard/Weir fans or Sheppard/McKay fans? YOU WOULD BE WRONG.)

Consider the following: Claire/Alex, the insanely hot anti-OTP pairing from a very cancelled 10-year-old show, or a bridge of peace in the Stargate: Atlantis fandom?

Title: "First Night"
Rating: NC-17
Categories: Cupid, Claire/Alex
Summary: Moving day.
Author's Note: Written for mspooh approximately ten thousand years ago. It has been collecting dust in my sekrit fangirly vault. Posted because sobelle resparked my omgflailinglust for this pairing. <3 <3 <3

Alex bites down on her clit just so and Claire throws her head back against the pillows, arching up at the feeling that is so so good and so close to being enough, and she realizes that she really doesn't care anymore that the picture Alex hung above the bed clashes with the bedspread. They've been arguing about it all day -- that, and the color of the baseboards, and who gets which side of the closet -- but right now all her logical processes are taken up with warm skin and sweat and the smell of sex and Alex's hands and the uncharacteristic sound spilling from her mouth.

"Alex, Alex, Alex," she babbles helplessly as he teases her just along that edge, refusing to let her come until he's good and ready. She doesn't talk during sex unless it's a calculated part of a planned seduction -- or she didn't, before he got to know her and figured out all her weak spots -- but now she's completely without a plan and clinging to his hair with one hand and the sheets with the other, talking as fast as she can in disjointed sentences about mortgages and upholstery and the challenges of combining two sets of dishes, all to keep from begging.

He nods between her legs as she talks, like he's actually listening to her suggestions about how to lay out the living room, and the added sensation of stubble against her inner thighs makes her squeeze her eyes closed and whimper.

He's breaking her with sex. Later, when she can think in something more coherent than two-word sentences, she'll consider that karmically, eventually somebody had to.

He's not supposed to be able to do this, she just barely manages not to say, squirming and pinned down and filling the air with half-sentences about paint and contractor schedules and oh, God, do that thing with your fingers again again again. She started it by coyly suggested that they christen their new bedroom (new hallway, new landing, new kitchen) about three seconds before she got him flat on his back. Alex came first after a long day of stress and unpacking and, with his own urgency pushed aside, he set his sights on her.

He knows her body so well by now, knows that humming or talking or even smiling with his mouth where it is and her every nerve on high alert will shoot sparks of vibration up and down her spine, knows about the soft spot behind her knee that's almost ticklish and can always make her gasp, knows she loves it when he holds her hand in bed. Alex knows ten thousand things about her that no one else ever got near and right now she feels too much to even care that she's so irreparably exposed.

She trusts him, or she wouldn't be here like this, would have flipped him over and mounted him and come on her own damned schedule, the way she's used to to doing.

Alex reaches up and grabs her hand. She cries out, words falling away all together, crushing his fingers with hers as bright colors begin to swell behind her eyelids.

She can hear him counting against her, he knows her so well: "Three, two..."

And she's gone, with a frightening intensity that clouds all her senses and makes her flail for breath. Blood and fire seem to rush up inside her all at once until she feels everything, every inch of skin and muscle and bone within her so strongly that no single impulse can register. She can't breathe, she knows, and she doesn't care, lets it drag her along until she's crying and shaking and she nearly blacks out.

For a brief moment, before her heart rate begins to slow and the biological wash of post-coital euphoria sets in, she's actually scared.

The first thing she feels again is Alex's hand still clasped in hers.

"Good?" he asks, smug as hell, and she wants to zing a reply, but she can't speak yet.

He frowns and shuffles up the bed, brushing the backs of his fingers across her face. The contact sends another jolt through her overwhelmed nervous system and she realizes how very much of a mess she looks right now -- and whatever else she is, whatever other parts of herself she has shown him, she has rarely been messy. It's what he intended, yes, what he wants, but that makes her no less uncomfortable about it.

For perhaps the first time in her life, she wishes she wasn't so uncomfortable with being out of control. It felt so good...

Alex touches a thumb to her mouth, gently sliding her lower lip down. "You're amazing," he tells her, unashamed of how much he adores her, staring at her like there's nothing in the universe that could make him want her more.

Confident, collected Claire would toss him a smirk and answer, "I know." Now, though, she only reaches out a weak hand and pulls him to her for a kiss.

She'll never, ever get tired of this, she thinks. Whenever he kisses her it sets off explosions of sensation -- feelings, ideas, need -- but this kiss is comforting and reassuring and shoots confidence back into her spine. It doesn't scare her how much he loves her -- she's overwhelmed and awed, but craves it too much to be afraid. What scares her is how much she loves him, enough to do this, to let down a guard she'd kept up so long that she didn't even remember there was anything else.

Enough to move in with him.

Enough to marry him, when she's ready -- sooner, if he asks. There's a lot about him that makes it hard to be pragmatic.


She stretches out next to him at the sound of her name, sensation returned to all her extremities, seeking confirmation of the arousal she can feel in his pattern of his breath against her face.

She finds his erection with her hand, loving when he shudders and the playing field is, once again, even. He's not as hard as he was the first time that night, but she knows his body, too, and knows this is enough.

"I'm ready," she tells him, and, not needing any further encouragement, he slides into her.

They moan in unison, something that always makes her smile, and she closes her eyes to better feel the way his body fits with hers, how he grows harder inside her when she tightens around him, how he always stays still for just a moment when he first enters her, just long enough to stun her with how right it feels.

And then he moves.

She runs her hands over his back as he winds her up again, sighing happily when he pauses a moment to kiss her, relishing the slow, lazy way they are in bed when it's the last time for the night, once they've both worked off their sexual frustration and tired each other out. This isn't about sex anymore, only being together, and she thinks this feeling is the one that could last her the rest of her life if he ever pops the question (and he will, she knows he will, because when they're like this she has complete faith, no matter what confusing rationale she comes up with during the day).

The pressure builds through her body again, not dramatic enough to make her start talking about home improvement again, but he still grabs her hand in his before she comes. He follows her over the edge before she comes back down and they end up a collection of tangled limbs, breathing hard and practically asleep.

"'s wet," she murmurs, barely conscious, aware of the state of the bed and suddenly wondering where the other sheets are if they haven't made it into the linen closet yet.

"Can sleep on the floor," Alex answers, nuzzling her neck.

She cuddles closer and decides to leave the sheets as they are. "Would you sleep on the floor with me?"

"Well, we did just get the rugs cleaned, so I suppose it'd be okay."

The senseless conversation calms her, as it always does. She thinks she has searched her whole life -- without knowing it -- for a man who will talk with her about nothing after vigorous sex until she falls asleep.

"Hey," Alex suddenly pokes her shoulder, and she squirms unhappily at the disruption of her near-sleep.

Finally, she opens one eye. "Hmm?"

He's grinning at her. "Guess we did pretty well christening the bedroom, huh?"

She smirks. "Tough act to follow."

He shoots her a look, probably trying to determine if she means that as an immediate request or not. Satisfied that she doesn't, he touches a finger to the tip of her nose and then kisses her.

"Welcome home," he says.

- end! -
Tags: fandom: cupid, fic

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