★ ash ★

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.

Not to say that forty year old science teachers can’t bounce on it. In fact, from where you are, more of them definitely should. It’s one hell of a view you have: sweat drips down between his pectoral muscles in a delightfully lickable line, his eyes squeeze shut in pleasure and his head rolls back so that you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he moans.

Yeah, it’s great from down here.

The strap he’s fucking himself on is a girthy six inches, and it’s a pleasure to watch the purple silicone disappear inside him with every thrust. There’s a little nub inside which presses on your clit just right as he goes, inching you closer to your orgasm with every luscious movement of his hips.

Oh, he is stunning. He is goddamn perfect.

“Fuck…” he chokes as the head of your dick hits his prostate and his cock leaks pre onto your stomach in a pearlescent line.

“Uh-huh,” you agree. The two of you are too fucked out to communicate clearly. It’s mostly just noises of appreciation and that’s just fine.

“I’m… I can’t…”

“Can’t what, honey?”

“Can’t keep going…” it’s said almost regretfully, like he wants to stave off his release for as long as possible so he can keep enjoying this. Your hands have been holding his hips so tightly that divots have formed, but you begin to rub comforting circles into his skin with your thumbs.

“Finish for me, handsome, go on.”

“Oh-hh-hh fuck,” he manages, and then suddenly his eyes are open and his gaze fixed solely on you, blue eclipsed with black from his lust. He’s suddenly working double time, his pert ass slapping lewdly against your harness as he speeds up.

Then he says something crazy, because that’s what happens when you’re caught up in a moment where you’re more horny than sensible.

“Put- a- baby- in- me,” he begs, punctuating the gaps between words with bounces. Your eyes go wider than his and your grip turns iron-tight as you start to control his pace, making him go even harder, making your clit get even more pressure.

“Yeah. Yeah Ry, gonna knock you up. Get you pregnant. Everyone’s gonna know who you belong to, ‘cause you’re mine.”

You lock eyes. For a second, both of you are convinced you can actually do it.

Ryland’s cock spurts with so much force it hits both you and him in the face. His shaky aftershocks move the strap just right and you’re pretty sure you flood the mattress when you come.

He collapses onto you, mewling as your cockhead hits his overused prostate. The two of you just lie in a sticky mess for a while as your breathing syncs and calms.

“In hindsight, I know that was a pretty wild thing to say. Sorry for not clearing it with you,” he mutters from where his face is tucked into your neck. You laugh.

“That’s okay, it was hot. I am aware you don’t have a womb though, so carrying a baby would be pretty difficult.”

“Should we call an ambulance or something?” you ask.

“Hm? Nah, he’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. You’re in the apartment next to mine, right?” he says, and says your name. You nod, shakily. “Right. Uh. I’m Healy.” You nod, because you’d seen his name on his mailbox. You’ve passed him once or twice, with polite nods of the head. “You got your keys? You should really be careful coming home at night, you know. All kinds of crazies out here.”

“Yeah,” you say, and without touching you, he leads you away from your whimpering assailant and up towards your apartments. You fumble for your keys and drop them, and he gently pushes you back, picks up your keys, and unlocks your door for you. His own hands are steady.

“Here,” he says. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you assure him.

“No, you’re not, you’re shaking,” he says, and he opens the door and brings you in. He puts his hand on your back again, guiding you gently into your apartment.

You are surprised to find that his hand is steady and warm through your shirt. You realize abruptly that you are shaking.

“Come on,” he says, and gets you sitting down in your armchair, and goes to your sink, getting down a glass. “Sure the guy didn’t hurt you before I got there?”

“No, he didn’t,” you promise. “He was just being an asshole. I’m not even sure you needed to, uh, intervene.”

He shrugs a little, and brings you a glass of water. “People don’t intervene enough,” he says. “Sometimes you gotta. I only broke one hand anyway. He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about him.”

You take the glass from him, and take a drink. “I can’t believe you broke a guy’s hand. And you don’t even want anything for it?”

He looks down at you then. He’s a big man—not just fat, but solid. Well, you know how strong he is. You’d felt his hand on your back. You’d seen how he’d hit that guy on the stairway before crumbling his fingers like dried kindling. That had been powerful. And for a moment, you put it together—all that power, and surprisingly gentle blue eyes, his brows knit into a little frown.

“I never said that,” he says, and his voice is a low, rough grumble.

And that’s when you think of what else all that power could do. You lower your glass of water and look back at him. He’d just rescued you, you think. The least you could do is show him some gratitude—or pretend it’s gratitude, and not just a sudden desire to have all that power against you, moving into you—

“I have these fish,” he says then.

You blink at him a moment, jarred out of your fantasies. “What?”

“I have a fish tank,” he repeats. “I’m going to be gone for a week. Could you come by Tuesday and Thursday and feed ‘em?”

It takes you a long, long moment to process that. “That’s it?” you say.

“That’s it,” he says. “If you feed them every day the tank gets dirtier, and I won’t be there to clean it. They’ll be okay. Can you?”

“I…” You look at him again, your eyes on his soft, stubbled jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. “I mean. Sure. Yeah, of course I can.”

“Great,” he said. “You a little less shaky? You could come over now, I could show you where I keep the fish food and all that.”

“Sure,” you say, and set down your glass of water, rising to your feet.

When you go out of your apartment, you don’t look down to see if the guy’s still on the stairs. But you do look around his place when he unlocks it and lets you in. The fish tank is the brightest thing in the room, well-lit and colorful. He gestures you over, shows off his fish, and opens the cabinet for the fish flakes.

“Just a pinch,” he says. “That’s all they need. It’ll be fine. I just hate leaving them all week with nothin’, y’know?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah. No problem.”

“Okay, then,” he says, and gets down a spare key for you. “Tuesday and Thursday. Try not to forget.”

“I won’t,” you promise. “Your fish are in safe hands.”

A poor choice of words, bringing up hands. You think of the mangled fingers on the stairwell again and swallow hard.

But he nods, smiling a little, and you also think of his hand on your back, his hands carrying a glass of water to you. Maybe it’s not that poor a choice of words.

He brings you the key, and when you take it, your fingers brush against his again. You look down at both of your hands, and then you take a breath.

“Y’know,” you say. “When you said you wanted a favor from—from that, I wasn’t expecting it to be, y’know. Aquarium-related.”

“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t think about it,” he says, his voice low, and you look up at him. “Well, I did. But I didn’t want to ask you for that. Not this time.”

“Why not?” you ask. “I’d have been…”

“Because,” he said, “you were scared.” And then he takes his hands and thrusts them into his pockets, looking a little apologetic for having noticed.

“I wasn’t that scared,” you say.

“You were shaking,” he reminds you. “I’m not gonna ask a terrified stranger to have sex. Come on. I’d have to break my own hand for that.”

You let out a little laugh, but then your laughter fades a little. “Look. You know. I wasn’t scared of you,” you say, assuring him. “You’re a good guy.”

The smile he gives you is rueful. “Not all the time,” he says.

“Maybe enough,” you say.

You both stand there for a moment in silence, in his tiny apartment, a twin of your own. You can hear the fish tank filter, and somewhere a clock is ticking. And then you approach him.

“You were a good guy when I needed a good guy,” you say.

You put your hand on his soft, broad shoulder for leverage, stretch up a little, and press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the stubble rough under your lips, the softness of his skin underneath.

And then he turns, and his mouth finds yours, his hands curling onto your shoulders. And yes, you can feel the strength there, that same power. But you can also feel his restraint, a gentleness that does not surprise you, not after the things he’s said, not after the things he hasn’t said. And you kiss him back, pressing into it, pressing yourself against him, assuring him that he is not making any demands—any requests—that are more than what you’re willing to give.

When he breaks the kiss there’s a flush to his cheeks, and he reaches up to cup your face, his eyes serious for a moment. “I still need you to feed my fish next week, though,” he says, his eyes searching.

You bite back a giggle, and just nod. “I promise.”

“All right, then,” he says. “So. Where were we?”

And he spends the rest of the night proving to you that his hands can do a lot more than break fingers.