Because I felt the need to write a HAPPY!Ryan/Colin fic. Pure, unadulterated mush. Also PWP. It's really one long sex scene. *g* Ah well. To all you R/C fans out there, HOO-AH! This is for you. Enjoy it or not, it was written with love. TITLE: Welcome Home! PART: One shot PAIRING: Ryan/Colin AUTHOR: makingamochrie RATING: NC-17 for mansmut DISCLAIMER: FICTION! Don't own. Don't sue. Please. I'm poor enough as it is! SUMMARY: Ryan welcomes Colin home from yet another tour. My eyes go to the clock on the bedside table maybe ten seconds before the alarm is set to go off. Reaching out slowly from my comfortable nest, I turn off the alarm, then pull my arm back beneath the warm blankets to keep myself from shivering. Winter’s hit this part of the country in a big way. I’d turn the thermostat up, but Colin likes a cool room to sleep in, preferring to get his warmth from me. It’s a warmth I’m more than willing to share, even if it means that I get cold on occasion. I’d endure a lot worse if he asked it of me. Because of who he is, he won’t, but that doesn’t make my offer any less genuine. Easing myself over onto my back, I turn my head to look at him, cuddled beneath the covers, his face tilted slightly upwards, his breathing deep and even. God, he’s so damn beautiful to me, so pale that his skin is almost translucent. It’s as if he glows from within, even with his eyes closed in sleep. Dark lashes, contrasting so beautifully with his snow white hair, lay shadows on his cheeks; cheeks I know would be as soft as a baby’s skin if I were to brush my fingers across them. I won’t do that, though, because I don’t want to wake him. At least, not yet. It’s such a rare opportunity to be able to watch him sleep, and I’m going to make the most of the time I have. I don’t have anywhere else to be that’s even remotely as important as this, and nowhere near as pleasurable. Life will have to go on without me for a little while longer. I think it can manage. An early riser, he’d normally be up well before me, well before the alarm even, but he came in late last night from his latest tour, exhausted to the bone. His face had been haggard and drawn, but the smile he gave me when I opened the door erased all the lines and transformed him into something almost…ethereal. That’s a big word for me, I know, but it’s the only one that fits. My heart overfilled with love and adoration, I’d hugged him tightly, drawing small circles on his back as I felt his body meld itself to mine. I could feel every inch of his tiredness, and after a single, tender kiss of welcome, I led him upstairs to our room, helped him out of his clothes, and tucked him in. He fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Not one word passed between us. None needed to. I knew all I wanted to know by the look in his eyes and the press of his body, and I know he felt the same from me. As far as I can tell, he stayed asleep through the night, and the way things look, he might remain that way for several more hours. If I let him. And truthfully, I’m not too sure how long I’m going to be able to hold out. He’s been gone for almost two months, after all, and through we talked on the phone pretty regularly, it’s nothing compared to having him here with me, sharing my warmth, sharing our bed. The blankets have captured and condensed our commingled scents, but it’s his I notice, and it stirs me in a way that I can’t even describe. All I know is that if I keep breathing him in like this, he’s going to be awakened far earlier than he expects. Not that that would be necessarily a bad thing. He, like me, is pretty much up for making love at any hour of the day or night. And many’s the time I’ve awakened to the exquisite sensation of his hands or mouth on me, sometimes coming even before I’ve even gotten the chance to enjoy it. At least consciously. He shifts slightly, tangling our legs more tightly together, and his hand moves, traveling up my side until it lands on my chest, very near where my heart beats, suddenly faster for his touch. Trails of electricity sear my skin where his fingers have been, and I feel myself hardening just from that innocent touch alone. Suddenly, the need to make love with him is unbearable, and even though I really do want him to sleep longer, I’m afraid it’s going to have take a brief intermission. Remaining on my back, I gently lift the arm closest to him and ease the back of my hand in circles over the dark hair on his flat, trim belly. He’s lost even more weight, I can tell. I make a mental note to speak to him about this, though I know it’s going to fall on deaf ears, just like always. He makes a soft sound, not quite a moan, and shifts again, closer to me. I continue to caress him, occasionally moving up to his chest but avoiding his nipples before returning to his belly and playing in the soft, fine hair there. Gradually, so very gradually, I allow the backs of my knuckles to skim over the area where those soft hairs become more wiry and coarse. He makes another not-quite moan, and I smile, letting my hand travel back up into safer territory. Not that any territory is really safe with him; he’s the most sensitive man I’ve ever known, his whole body an erogenous zone. Or, as I like to call it, my playground. I turn to my side, then, taking care to keep my legs as still as I can. He’s a notoriously light sleeper, and I don’t want him awake just yet. His hand slides off my chest and lays, fingers curled slightly inward, in the tiny space between us. I want to take that hand and nuzzle it against my cheek, but I don’t dare. He’d wake for sure. With my new freer range of motion, I go back to stroking him, trailing the flat of my hand along his flank and waist and up his side. His skin is like cool silk beneath my fingers and I revel in it. It’s been so long, and it feels so good. I continue those motions for some span of minutes, selfishly luxuriating in the feel of him beneath my hand. On the next pass, I take a chance and move lower, tracing the outline of his hip and back, over the muscular roundness of his cheek, cupping him there briefly before tracing my way back up. His breathing has definitely quickened now, though I think he’s still asleep. I steal a quick glance to his face, and it’s still relaxed and youthful in a way that only he can pull off. Satisfied, I return to what I was doing, blessing the length of my arms as I reach further down to trace along the outside of thighs toned from years of running around on various stages acting like a lovable idiot. God, every part of him feels so wonderful to me. Retracing my path, I rub his belly some more—it is always guaranteed to be the one thing that will put him to sleep no matter what—and I feel him almost immediately relaxing. I grin. Perfect. With every slow circle of his belly, I move lower and lower until I am lightly brushing against him, already half erect. Then, ever so gently, I grasp him, and he comes alive, hot and eager in my hand. Excitement shoots through me at his response, at the feel of him, velvet soft and steel hard. And his heat, which seems concentrated in only this one spot, where he is so cool otherwise. Outside, at least. He’s very hot inside, but I can’t let myself think about that just now, not when I’m already so hard, it hurts. God, I want to rub against him like a cat in heat; grind myself into him, let our erections spark fires of their own as they slide together. But no, not yet. Not quite yet. Instead, I grip him a bit more firmly. Not hard, just enough to create a bit of pleasant friction as I begin to move my hand along his turgid shaft, memorizing it all over again. He gets even harder and grows even longer as I stroke him, and I catch a very definite moan breathed lightly in my ear. I want to kiss him, but I don’t quite dare. He might still be asleep. And if he isn’t, he seems quite content to pretend to be that way. Which, again, is just fine with me. There will be plenty of time for kissing later. On the upstroke, I ease my thumb across the already weeping head and his hips buck ever so slightly beneath me. Drawing careful, lazy circles, I gather the copious natural lubricant and spread it onto my fingers and palm. His scent is muskier, sweeter now, and it’s literally driving me insane. I grip him again with my lubricated hand, using a more firm touch as I begin to stroke from base to tip and back again. His hips are undulating like water beneath me, and his moans are now almost constant. I know he’s awake. He’s got to be. But I still don’t look up, happy to play the game for as long as he wants to play it. But soon, it’s not enough. I want—no, I need—to taste him. Carefully untangling our legs, I begin to move downward, laying kisses along his chest and belly, detouring once or twice for a lazy tongue swipe across an incredibly responsive nipple. I lightly rim his bellybutton, then move further down until his erection brushes against my cheek. Like an infant searching for food, I instinctively turn my head in that direction and take him partially inside my mouth. God, he tastes so sweet. I’m addicted to it. I’ll freely admit that to anyone who asks. And have, come to think of it. I know he’s awake now, because his hand comes down to cup the back of my head, short, trimmed nails scratching lazily against my scalp in a way that makes me want to purr. I ease him in deeper as I continue to tongue him, swirling around the head before tracing an imaginary line down the underside of his shaft. He moans again, and his hips shift in a mute request for more. It’s a request I’m only too happy to grant. Relaxing my throat muscles, I take him all the way in, and the moan becomes an outright groan as his hand clamps harder onto my head. God, I love this. I could do it forever. I hope I’ll always be able to. Molding my lips tightly around him, I begin to move my head in a slow and easy rhythm, pleased beyond measure by the sounds he’s making. I rub myself against the sheets. It’s not enough, of course, it never is, but it feels good anyway, so I do it. His hips move again in another silent request. I know what he wants, but I’m not going to do it, because I don’t want him to come this way. Not that I don’t adore it. But I just have something else in mind, something I need, and something I know he needs as well. I know he’s getting close. His breathing is changing into those little hitching gasps that I love so well, and finally, reluctantly, I pull away. He moans again, in disappointment, this time, but that’s ok, because I have a feeling he’s not going to be disappointed for very long. I use my hand to continue my mouth’s work as I move again, arranging myself so that I’m now kneeling above him on either side of his lean hips. His eyes are open, so dark they’re almost black, huge, and glazed with the pleasure I’m giving him. I smile down at him, and can no longer resist the urge to kiss him. Leaning over, I meld our lips together, kissing him deeply, moaning myself as his tongue entwines with mine. Still kissing, I position him at my entrance and ease him inside. It’s been awhile, and it hurts, but only for a second. Then I slide easily down, completely sheathing him within me, swallowing his drawn-out groan of pleasure down my open mouth. With my hands now free, I toy with his nipples, pinching and squeezing lightly as I begin to move up and down on him, still locked into his delicious mouth. His cool hands settle on my hips, and he helps guide me, thrusting gently up to meet my downward strokes. When we pull apart to breathe, I move to his ear, to his neck, to the notch between his collarbones, suckling there like a newborn babe. His thrusts are faster now, more urgent, and his eyes drift closed against too much sensation all at once. Our chests and bellies rub together, and I move back up to take possession of his mouth. The sounds at the back of his throat are much like whimpers, and I love every one of them. I drive my hips down to meet him, stroke for stroke until his hands bite into my hips and he wrenches his mouth away from mine. He lets out one long breath, catches another and holds it. His hips arch up, burying himself within me, and freeze there. And then I am filled with his heat as he releases deep inside me. Oh, so damn deep. Finally, he relaxes, slumping back onto the mattress, and I follow him down, taking care not to rest my full weight on him, even though I know he could take it. His hands release my hips and move up to cup my face. He guides me to his mouth once again, and there is so much love in his kiss that I’m completely overwhelmed. If it was within me to cry right now, I probably would, such is the intensity of the emotions I’m feeling. After what seems like an eternity, he slowly pulls away and gives me a smile that sets sparks off in my brain. Silently, he urges me off of him and to one side. I comply willingly, even though I’m so swollen and distended I fear I’ll die if I don’t get some relief, and soon. Once I’m positioned on my side and to his satisfaction, he turns away from me and draws his knees up to his chest. He then moves back, molding himself once again to my body, back to front. Reaching behind him, his hand unerringly finds my throbbing erection and gently positions me. I touch his shoulder in question. He turns his head to me and smiles. His eyes are filled with love, and trust, adoration, and yes, need, and I could no more deny him than I could deny breathing. There’s some lube next to the alarm clock, and I quickly use it, sternly telling myself not to come by my own damn hand. When I’m satisfied with my work, I kiss him on one shoulder, while reaching down and spreading him for me. Before I can even think to penetrate him, he grunts and pushes down hard, and suddenly, I’m engulfed to the hilt in his hot, tight cavern. I stare blankly at nothing for a long moment, unable to feel anything else but him, hot and eager and so damn alive, surrounding me. It’s only by the grace of whatever God there might be that I don’t come then and there. It’s probably the reason he positioned us like he did, since fucking while spooning is kind of hard to do, especially when you have a bad back like I do. He fixes that soon enough, though. Ever attuned to my body, when he senses I’m ready, he rolls us both over, still attached, so that he is on his belly and I am over top of him. His knees are still drawn tightly against his chest, and I must admit, this is a position we haven’t used in a long time, and fuck if I don’t enjoy it. He’s completely open to me, and when I’ve finally gathered enough energy to thrust, this new angle does wonderful things for me. And for him, too, if his gasps are any indication. I ride him as slowly as I can manage, wanting this to last, knowing it won’t. I smooth my palms up his back until I’m at his shoulders. I hook my fingers around the muscles there and begin to put more force into my movements. All too soon, I’m totally out of control, thrusting into him blindly, quickly, forcefully, grunting loud with every single stroke. My orgasm is rushing toward me like a speeding train. I can feel it in the heat and tightening in my balls. God, I want nothing but to stave it off, but there’s no way I can. He’s too hot and tight and fucking perfect, like he was made for me and only me. I pull out as far as I can, breathing in ragged gasps, and then I’m back inside him and coming, and coming, and coming. Light bursts behind my eyes, and I think I’m screaming, but the blood roaring in my ears is too loud for me to be sure. And then it’s over, and I collapse down upon his sweat-covered back, completely limp and unable to move. He bears my weight easily, panting heavily himself, and I take in the musk of him, the sweetness of him. It calms me after as much as it excites me before. Strange, maybe, but true. Finally, when the slightest bit of strength returns, I slide off and slightly away from him, landing on my side, still dazed. He moves back again, and the sweat of our loving melds us together. He takes my hand, still limp, and brings it around and up to his mouth, brushing his lips against my knuckles before placing it over his heart. He turns his head once again to look at me, and the love in his eyes rivals any fairy tale ever told. I’m quite sure mine do the same, by the grin he gives me. At long last, he turns away and nestles down into the pillow to finish his interrupted sleep. I find myself right there with him, pulled down by the heavy weight of post-sex sleepiness. Still, no words have passed between us. They don’t have to. We love each other in all the ways one person could love another. And you don’t need words to know that. Content and at peace for the first time in two months, I willingly follow the siren call of sleep, knowing he’ll be there when I awaken. And in the end, that’s all that’s ever mattered. FIN