Title: Shape Me (1/1)

Universe: Post-The Following

Rating: R

Pairing: Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy

Summary: He woke to the sounds of birds chirping, and to the feel of his wife against him.

Author's Note: Er, because. (I don't think I need to have an explanation for wanting to put these two in bed together.)

x x x

The first thing he heard when he woke were the birds. They chirped louder here at the shore in Maryland, higher-pitched and more often, than in the Richmond suburbs, and their sheer numbers and verve for singing created a cacophony that was sometimes overwhelming so early in the morning. But today, when he woke, it was the perfect sort of sound, accompanied by the perfect sort of touch.

"Mm…" He sighed softly in unmistakable appreciation as he felt a familiar pair of hands caressing him, one curving around his shoulder and the other on his chest. They were so gentle and warm and he felt nearly weightless beneath them with sleep, made incrementally more whole and solid only by her repeated efforts to wake him. As he returned more fully to consciousness, he became aware of the weight of her head on his chest, and the heavy warmth of her arm slung across his ribcage, and he smiled at her closeness as he realized the solid mass beside him was her body, rolled up right next to his, with one leg laced between both of his. He wondered how long she'd been laying like this, practically molded to him, and if they had slept tangled together like this all through the night.

Usually they went to bed back-to-front, with his body curling around hers with one arm slung over her side that she often cradled against her chest as she slept. But if they went to bed just after making love, usually they fell asleep facing one another, too sated and exhausted to shift, with her head tucked under his and their sweaty legs still damp and twisted together. One time, she had even fallen asleep with him still inside her, barely minutes after they'd both finished.

Ryan smiled to himself at the memory. He'd laughed at the time, when he'd tried to talk to her and ask her if she was all right, and then slowly realized that the reason her body was clinging to his wasn't because she was upset, but because she'd just completely passed out cold on him. He'd teased her mercilessly for weeks after that whenever they were alone, so much so that she eventually snapped, and threatened that if he didn't shut up about it, he wouldn't be getting it any more. The jokes stopped quickly after that, though sometimes he had to make a conscious effort to bite his tongue to keep them in. Other times, they were too good to pass up, and he suffered the consequences.

But he knew that today, she wasn't asleep. He'd known from the moment he'd woken that she was already up—maybe she'd been up for hours; he didn't know what time it was—and knowing that, he wondered now just how long she'd been waiting for him. There was something both oddly charming and rather frustrating about the thought of her lying here, waiting for him all morning. Why hadn't she woken him earlier?

"Good morning." Her voice was as soft and as gentle as her hands, and he smiled at the sound of it. He kept his eyes closed as he listened to her ask quietly if he was ready to wake up, soaking in her voice, as he had her touch earlier.

He was tempted to say, no, he was not ready to wake up, because he didn't want this moment to end, but then he remembered that he was already awake and that she was not speaking to him from a realm beyond this one. This moment, no matter what it felt like, was not, in fact, a dream. He could open his eyes and it would still exist: she would still be here, the birds would still be singing, and everything would be as he'd used to dream it would be.

"Just give me a minute more," he murmured nonetheless, reaching out blindly for her hand that rested atop his bare chest. He squeezed her fingers, and his lips flickered into a brief smile when she squeezed his back.

As he slowly came to, he became aware of more than just the feel of her hands on him and the sound of the birds on the roof and in the trees. He could hear the neighbors now, could identify the sounds of an engine or two as they motored through this small stretch of creek their cottage faced, mercifully taking things slow on the water and abiding by the 'No Wake' signs posted at either end of the waterway. He could also feel the easy, comforting warmth of the sun on his leg, the one that had escaped from beneath the sheets, and he guessed it was probably still early. The touch of the sun on skin wasn't fiery yet, and so it couldn't be long after dawn. It got hot early here.

He laughed to himself softly then, thinking that this couldn't possibly real, couldn't possibly be anything but a fantasy. When his wife grew impatient and nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder to kiss him, he closed his eyes and accepted whatever said fantasy wanted to give him. It was all just that unbelievable. It was…

"…too perfect," he murmured, his arms sliding around her back, pulling her slim form completely on top of him in a clumsy way that elicited her carefree laughter.

"Maybe for you," his wife replied, drawing out the words in a pointed—yet still amused—manner. "But it'd be more perfect for me if you'd open up your eyes and join me in the realm of reality," she added, in her usual straightforward manner as she settled herself atop him. "You could be imagining anyone in bed with you." There was a touch of bitterness there in her tone, and he couldn't help but laugh at it.

"Right," he deadpanned. "Anyone." As if he'd imagine any other woman but her in his bed, waking him in the early morning with quick-moving hands and a one-track mind.

"Well, I don't know who you dream of," she shot back defensively.

"You," he replied simply, and then he opened his eyes for the first time that morning.

His vision was filled, immediately and completely, with her. The sight of her was blinding: with the sun streaming in behind her, her hair was lit up from behind as if to form a halo, but her face was left in darkness as his brain battled on what to focus on and how to even out the exposure. It took a couple seconds for his eyes to adjust, too see the pale blue eyes gazing down at him, the surprised parting of her lips, the flush on her face.

"I dream of you," he repeated, reaching a hand up to cup her cheek. It was warm to the touch.

She rolled her eyes then, sticking her tongue out and scrunching her face and pitching her body forward a bit as if to mimic vomiting, but he had seen it. He had seen that flash of tenderness, of disbelief in her eyes. He had seen the speechless way her mouth had opened and closed. The way every part of her had softened from the inside out. He had seen her, just for one second, fall further in love with him. Witnessing it made his beleaguered heart beat a little sporadically in his chest and caused his throat to grow a bit dry. He rubbed his thumb against her cheekbone to remind himself where he was, to ground himself in this moment. To keep her still so he could form as detailed a memory as he could.

"I love you," he told her. He was letting go of her cheek, and about to let his hand fall to his side, but she caught it before it could drop. She caressed his fingers between both of her hands for a moment before pressing the backs of his knuckles to her cheek. Her skin was pink and warm against his and he luxuriated in the feel of her.

"I love you too."

She said the words quietly, much like she had the first time, in a hushed manner that had made him wonder how long she had kept them trapped inside, how long she had been waiting to voice them. He smiled at her now, as he had not that first time, and traced the curve of one corner of her mouth with his thumb.

"Now that's good to hear," he said.

She snickered then, and let her lips split in a grin, and before he knew anything else, she was bent over on top of him and her mouth was on his and her hands were around his neck and she was kissing him so joyously that he had to laugh, too, and throw his arms around her in order to pull her even closer.

They had been married for two years now, and had lived an inarguably peaceful life together for nearly three. They did not have cause to fear anyone or anything anymore, least of all each other and what the other may or may not feel. There was a security, an assuredness, and a conjoined effort in their marriage that made every day seem both like a supreme, otherworldly blessing and also like nothing more than the expected product of a collaborative job well done. They both basked in the feel of it, and never more so at moments like this, when they were alone together and their love could be laid completely bare without fear of rejection or reprisal.

As she kissed him, Ryan ran his hands under Claire's blue tank top and caressed the smooth skin of her back. The flimsy piece of clothing was much too big for her, loose in nearly every way, and so he could slip the full width of both his arms under it easily without making her feel constricted. She moaned softly when she felt his hands cup her sides and then run upwards, first strumming against her ribs and then gliding just beneath the undersides of her breasts—a tease of a tease.

He had always enjoyed undressing her, and though she wore so little this morning—it was too hot here to wear anything more than the most minimal amount of clothing to bed—he still enjoyed taking every little bit off of her.

Ever so slowly, as she kissed him, he began lifting the hem of her tank top, just a centimeter or two at a time. He ran his fingers along each new section of skin as it was exposed, seducing or tickling at turns, making her moan and laugh and sometimes a mixture of the two. When he reached her belly button, he took ahold of her slim body by the hips and rolled her over with him, so that she was the one with her back to the bed and he was crouched above her. Surprised by his actions, her eyes were wide and bright when he looked down at her, and she smiled in approval before pulling him down for a kiss.

But his lips did not stay attached to hers for long, and nor did his hands stay still at his sides. As his mouth moved to her cheek and down her neck, so his hands moved too, going upward so as to meet in the middle somewhere. He lifted her shirt incrementally as he went, pausing at each rise to press roving kiss on her warming skin.

She began to wriggle under him as he refused to increase his pace, and he knew if he didn't appease her in some way soon, she'd take matters into her own hands again, and he very much liked moments like these where he was in control—for however long she allowed him. Sensing her mood, he wasted no time in pulling the remainder of her tank top off, tossing it across the room and baring her breasts to both the heavy, humid air and to his eyes.

He had always loved her breasts, never more so than when they were naked before him and he was alone with her. He loved the way her breasts looked—not especially large, but not inconsequential, either. They filled her out and they fit in his hand and now, as he looked at their eager pointed tips, just begging to be touched, he felt his mouth go dry.

This happened, sometimes. Though they'd been married for a little while now, he was at times still struck dumb by the reality of his life. The reality of her, in it, actively loving and wanting—of all people—him.

Suddenly foregoing his original plans for a calm and serene bout of early-morning lovemaking, he wrapped his arms around her back and drew her body up into his, ducking his mouth as he did so to catch the peak of one breast in his mouth. Before she could even utter a word, he was bent and suckling, as eager as an infant.

She gasped at his speed and his enthusiasm—though, he thought with a private grin, she should be used to it by now—and threw her head back as she arched into him, mewling softly for more.

"Please, honey," she whispered, and he smiled at the endearment. He laved the nipple he was working on with a few extra firm and extra long licks, just so he could listen to her moan for him again. She was getting louder now, and he reveled in the sound of her, asking for him, only for him. "Please, Ryan."

She was the most independent and self-sustaining woman out of all the people he'd ever known. To hear her beg for his help was both humbling and electrifying. At moments like this, he still thought that same awestruck thought that had entered his brain like a bolt of lightning twelve years ago, during their first kiss: She actually wants me.

When he switched from one breast to the other, she clenched her legs hard around him, silently crying out for his attentions in other places. Stroking her smooth back with his hands, he murmured, "Soon, I promise. Soon," against the mutable flesh of her breast as he ever so gently drew his teeth against the wet, sensitive nub at its center.

The sound that left her was almost like a scream, though not one of unequivocal pleasure. There was frustration there, too. Lots of it, that would quickly morph into lust-fueled anger if he wasn't careful.

He grinned against her breast at the thought—she was so fucking hot when she was mad—and then curled his tongue around her nipple before tugging on it sharply with his lips. He was going to do the same with the other, but then he felt her pinch his back none too lightly and decided to come to terms with the fact that, no, she really wasn't kidding this morning.

He let her go, then, and watched out of the corner of her eye the way her breasts bounced as she fell back against the bed. He made his way down her body, trailing kisses, whispering that he just wanted to check that she was ready, and then they would get down to business, when he felt two hands latch onto his cheeks and lift his head. With an intensely serious look, she stared down at him and bit out the words, making each one its own sentence: "I am ready now, Ryan." As if to prove her point—as if it needed to be proven—she took his hand in hers and shoved it unceremoniously between her thighs.

He shut his eyes at the feel of her, letting out one strangled, shuddering breath. The heat of her was immense; she was like a human oven or an active volcano—ready to catch fire or erupt at any moment, given the right circumstances and motivation. He pressed his palm against her almost thoughtlessly, having no other want than to be closer to—to be in—that heat.

She moaned in approval at his industry, whispering encouragements, and even a couple explicit directions—things that he knew she would never say in anything except the daze of almost-sated arousal. Dipping his hands inside her welcome opening, he listened to her cry out, and watched for a second as she writhed on the bed beneath him, growing mindless as he drew his fingers in and out, slow at first, then deeper, then faster—

"Ryan," she cried out finally, a hoarse note in her voice that immediately made him look up. "W-With you," she panted, her eyes wide and wild, "With you, please," and the words were like a switch, like an enormous stop sign. His hand fell away from her hot core at once, and his body moved to line up with hers without another word.

She smiled as he fell into line atop her, and reached a hand up to cup his cheek. She stared up at him for a long moment as he hovered above her, neither of them wanting to break the moment, despite the need rushing fast through their bodies. Finally she flashed him a quick smile, and after pressing a brief kiss to his lips, nodded at him to continue.

After parting her wet lips gently with his fingers, he had her opening spread wide enough to ease himself inside and he did so, as slowly as he could possibly manage, with her groaning beneath him like that, and pushing up against him for more, and whispering his name in nearly devout fervor.

She adjusted quickly, his body so familiar to hers and hers to his, and so in minutes, he began plunging into her in earnest, both of them panting and crying out in inhuman sounds and sweating all over each other in the heat of the moment and in the heat of the day. He had to keep his eyes shut to concentrate, but he buried his head against her neck nonetheless, latching his lips onto the delicate, thin skin on her throat, consumed by a sudden desire to taste every bit of her while he could, while he was still inside her, because tasting her on two ends was so much sweeter than just one.

He was busying himself by trying to create the right amount of pressure with his lips to create a semi-permanent, but not bruise-worthy mark on her neck that would stay for just a day or two, when he was suddenly wrenched from his dominant position on top of her and found himself on his back. He looked up at her in momentary bewilderment as she rose above him, but then she dropped, taking him in fast and deep, and he didn't bother asking the how or the why. Nothing like that mattered much in this moment, because asking and answering such questions might stop her from continuing to take him in as fast and as tightly as she was now, and that was the last thing he wanted, for her to stop.

"Christ," he could hear himself murmur in awe as he stared up at her, watching her cheeks redden and her brow furrow in concentration and her breasts bounce wildly as she rode him. He knew she didn't like it when he bit out that word like it was a dirty curse and he mentally kicked himself, but there was no taking it back down. From the ethereal look on her face, however, he would bet she hadn't even noticed. Or, if she had, maybe—just this once—she had liked it. He had meant it as a compliment, after all.

She kept a fast and almost rough rhythm atop him, pushing up and falling down at a pace he almost couldn't keep track of with his eyes, but he didn't complain. He knew the end was coming quick for her; her face was almost Christmas red (she got so much color during their lovemaking; he absolutely adored it); and her breath was coming in tight bursts, so he knew she was fighting to hold it in, trying instead to force all her concentration into hitting that end mark as vigorously as possible, to make the after-effects last as long as possible.

And then, before he knew it, she came, suddenly falling apart on top and around him, her body shaking uncontrollably in the most pleasurable and perfect of ways. He wasn't finished yet, but he caught her as she came down, and gave her time to reacquaint herself with the Earth and the living, rubbing his hands along the sides of her arms and kissing her chest and neck as she convulsed.

She whispered his name once, twice, and a few times more, in the aftermath and he kissed her gently when she did, murmuring his love to her, murmuring how beautiful she was, murmuring that he still needed her, just for a couple minutes more, baby, that's it, he promised, and then he helped her onto her back where she could rest as he went searching for that same finish line that she had just blown through, swearing he would be quick.

She moaned weakly as he began moving again, and if he hadn't known better, if this were their first time, he would have stopped and asked if she was all right, if it was okay for him to keep going. But this wasn't their first time and he's known her body for some time now, how it works and what it can take, and so he continued thrusting into her, moving faster and deeper as he felt his own release rush toward him. He reached a hand out to hold her breast and thumb her still-wet nipple as he pushed himself further towards the edge, needing that extra bit of visual stimulation, needing her input, and she, watching him as he strained to find himself in her, knowing he was almost there but needed help, reached her own hand out to her other breast and stimulated it, plucking and rubbing for him, and that did it. Watching the two of them pleasure her together was too overwhelming to last, and though he wanted to watch it forever, on and endless loop until he died, he only managed a minute, at best, before his body went into overload and burst deep and hot inside of hers.

He would have stopped himself if he could after that, but his body was boneless and maybe bloodless, too, after that orgasm, and it collapsed on top of hers uncontrollably, before he could even take a breath. The soft groan that came from her then was not of pleasure but of discomfort and maybe even pain, and though he couldn't move yet, he whispered a hoarse, "Sorry," and it sounded so weak that she couldn't help herself; despite the wind being knocked out of her, she laughed. Her body trembled beneath his with humor and, once he'd gained his bearings again, he laughed too, and then finally rolled off of her. She turned onto her side towards him as he did so, removing herself from the damp spot on the bed, and he drew her resolutely against him with a strong arm.

"So… Has it been a really long time or something?" he wondered finally, after both their heavy breathing had died down and their ears had stopped ringing and the birds could be heard again.

Claire chuckled, tucking her head in against his shoulder. "I don't think so, no."

He turned to her, grinning, and then kissed her on the mouth. Though no doubt he meant it to be brief, the kiss seemed to take on a life of its own, growing deeper and more consuming, and she felt herself beginning to rise again, and turn fully towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck to meld them together once more.

"Just—gimme some time," Ryan finally said, breaking them apart so he could breathe.

Claire smiled, dipping her lips to his once more before relenting. "You started it."

"Did not," he muttered, elbowing her playfully as she fell back to his side. "You're the one who woke me with your hands all over the place."

Claire snorted, pulling her hair up into a ponytail and then beginning to braid it to keep some of the heat off. "Oh, please," she shot back. "You make it sound like you woke up with my hands on your crotch. I like to think I was a bit more subtle than that."

Ryan grinned, catching her eye as he laid back to watch her fix her hair. Her fingers moved with deft sureness as she coiled the strands behind her head, her elbows waving in a distinct rhythm without a single falter. "You know, subtlety isn't really a man's realm. I would've been just as happy to wake up with your hands all over me down there. Or, even better…" he grinned, his gaze falling from her eyes as he trailed off suggestively.

Claire scowled at him, and then tucked her braid to one side, before lying down beside him once more. For a long while they just laid there, arms around each other, listening to the sounds of the world around them as it began to wake up. But he didn't feel as calm as he had a moment ago, or as he usually did in this bed at this place; now he felt a niggling sensation as he listened to the community and the wildlife around them. He felt like there was something he was missing. Ryan guessed it couldn't be any later than six o'clock, so he tried to comfort himself with the fact that whatever he'd forgotten, he'd likely be able to fix it or find it during the day, but the thought didn't do much to placate him. He still felt vaguely uneasy as he listened to the rise and fall of commotion on the creek—motorboats motoring by and sailors playing music and kids shouting to each other—

It was then that Ryan realized what was missing. Why he still felt like he was waiting for something, even over a half-hour after they'd both brought one another to completion and had collapsed in bed, virtually powerless. He glanced outside, and watched as the sun bean to light up the creek in earnest now as it rose up in the sky and illuminated the water. The sight of such a morning usually gave him a feeling of quiet happiness, of belonging, but this morning, it did just the opposite.

"I missed him, didn't I?" Ryan asked, his voice dropping low with regret.

There was a frozen, pregnant pause. And then Claire nodded slowly against his shoulder.

"He left about forty minutes before I woke you up," she told him.

Ryan sighed through his nose, closing his eyes as he laid his head back on the pillow. "Shit," he muttered.

Joey was going out on his first big ocean fishing trip today, and though Ryan hadn't planned on going with him, he had at least wanted to wake up early enough to see the boy off and wish him luck. Joey was going with neighbors of theirs, the St. Pierre family, because they (unlike Joey's family) had a boat big and sturdy enough to take on the ocean waters and a load of fish without capsizing. Ryan had never minded that his stepson was going on this trip with someone else, but he did mind that he hadn't been awake to see him go.

He was the one who'd taught Joey to fish last summer, when they'd had their first real family vacation here, and Joey had taken to it with all the enthusiasm and concentration that he took to everything. Though he hadn't known how to say it at the time—and, to be honest, he still didn't know how to say it—Ryan had been so proud to see Joey excel at and enjoy something he'd always liked doing. There weren't many intersections of their interests, apart from them both liking the quiet, and unfortunately it wasn't easy to build a solid or lasting relationship on a shared affinity for lack of sound. But fishing had always been a good middle ground, a good stand-in for the quiet, with occasional interruptions of conversation. Ryan had really hoped to be able to send him off today, and wish him luck like a father would.

"I—I'm sorry," Claire whispered, her heart sinking at her husband's reaction. "He came in to say goodbye, but you were asleep and I thought—you were so tired last night, after the drive, the traffic—I thought you needed the sleep and I just told him to go, the St. Pierres were waiting by the dock already anyway and I—"

Ryan cut her off with a tight squeeze on his hand on hers. "It's okay," he told her, wrapping both arms around her sides and pressing a firm kiss to her forehead. "It's okay, I'll see him when he gets back."

"That'll be at about two," Claire replied, reaching an arm out to pull herself more deeply into his embrace.

"Then I'll see him at about two," Ryan said, his words falling into her hair, which was now resting just beneath his chin. He pressed his lips against the smooth ridges of her braid, and closed his eyes. Maybe he'd missed out on wishing Joey luck, but at least he'd be here to congratulate him when he came back.

And besides, two PM was hours and hours away. He and Claire could certainly find ways to keep busy until then, he thought with a smile. He was sure of it.

x x x

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the piece, and I would love to hear your thoughts. I've been off my writing game for quite a while now, so feel free to throw any constructive criticism my way, too!