reapersgalaxy

He's been back on Earth for three weeks, and he still can't stop touching things.

The walls. The countertops. The leaves on the trees outside. He runs his fingers over everything like he's verifying it's real, like he's still in the Hail Mary's sterile pod and needs to remind himself that gravity exists, that air moves, that there are other people.

But he hasn't touched you yet. Not really. Not the way he wants to.

You've been patient. You've seen the way his hands hover near your shoulder, then drop. The way he stands too close, then steps back. The way his eyes track you across the room, hungry and hesitant all at once.

Tonight, you're sitting on the couch, reading. He's been circling the living room for ten minutes, picking up the same mug, putting it down, picking it up again.

You close your book. "Ryland. Come here."

He stops. His Adam's apple bobs with a harsh, audible sound. "I— I don't know if I can— if I'll be able to—"

"Come here."

He crosses the room like he's walking through molasses. When he reaches the couch, he stands in front of you, hands clenched at his sides. His whole body is trembling.

You reach out and take his hand. His fingers are cold, calloused from years of working in zero-G, gripping tools, surviving. You pull him down onto the couch beside you.

He makes a sound—a soft, broken noise—when you don't let go.

"Years," he whispers. "I didn't touch anyone for years. I didn't see any humans. I thought I was going to die alone out there."

You bring his hand to your cheek, press it against your skin. "You're here now."

His breath catches. His thumb moves, almost involuntarily, tracing the curve of your cheekbone. Then his other hand comes up, cupping your face, and he leans in and presses his forehead to yours.

"I don't know where to start," he says, voice cracking. "I want to touch all of you. I want to memorize every inch. I'm afraid if I start, I won't stop."

"Then don't stop."

He kisses you.

It's not gentle. It's desperate, hungry, his mouth crushing against yours, his hands sliding into your hair, gripping, pulling. He's not coordinated—he's all awkward angles and too much teeth, but the need in it is overwhelming. He's trying to devour you, trying to make up for thousands of days of isolation in one kiss.

You pull back just enough to breathe. "Slow down. We have time."

He gasps like he's been choked out. "I've been itching—I've been dreaming about this. About you. I used to jerk off in the ship thinking about your hands, your mouth, the way you'd feel underneath me—"

He cuts himself off, face flushing, but his hands are already pushing the hem of your shirt up. "Can I— is this okay—"

You catch his wrists. "Yes. But slow down. Let me touch you back."

He freezes, chest heaving. Nods.

You unbutton his shirt slowly, pushing it off his shoulders. His skin is pale, covered in scars—a long one across his ribs, a burn mark on his collarbone down his arm, the faded lines of lifetime experiences. He flinches when your fingers trace the scar on his ribs.

"Does it hurt?"

"No. It's just—" He swallows. "It's been so long since anyone touched me. I forgot what it felt like. I forgot how good it feels."

You push him back onto the couch, straddle his hips. He's already hard, straining against his jeans, and when you grind down on him, he lets out a moan that's almost a sob.

"Please," he whispers. "Please, I need— I need to feel you. I need to be inside you. I need to know I'm real, that this is real."

You reach down, unbutton his jeans, free his cock. It's thick, flushed, already leaking. You stroke him once, twice, and he bucks into your hand, eyes rolling back.

"I'm not gonna last— I've been thinking about this for so long—"

"Then don't." You guide him to your entrance, sink down onto him in one slow, wet motion.

He cries out. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and he's shaking—his whole body trembling as you take him inch by inch until he's buried to the hilt.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—" You've never witnessed him curse so much before—always making it a point not to swear as to not slip up when working with his kids.

You stay still for a moment, letting him adjust. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face twisted like he's in pain, but it's not pain—it's overload. He's been starved for so long that this much sensation is almost too much.

"Look at me," you say.

He opens his eyes. They're glassy, wet.

"Tell me what you need."

"I need—" His voice splits. He pulls you down, wraps his arms around you, buries his face in your neck. "I need you to hold me. I need to feel you holding me."

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, hold him tight against your chest. He's sobbing now, quiet, muffled against your skin, and you rock your hips slowly, gently, letting him fuck up into you with shallow, desperate thrusts.

He's not trying to be good. He's not trying to impress. He's just feeling—finally, after years of nothing, feeling another body against his, skin on skin, warmth and wetness and the sound of your breath in his ear.

He comes with a broken cry, buried deep inside you, his arms locked around you like he's afraid you'll disappear. You hold him through it, stroke his hair, press kisses to his temple.

He stays inside you, soft now, but still not letting go. His breath is hot against your neck, his body slowly relaxing.

"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you for being here. For waiting."

"Always."

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His face is tear-streaked, his eyes red, but he's smiling—a real smile, the first one you've seen since he came back.

He kisses you, softer this time. Gentle. Learning again.