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watch you sleep (nsft ryland grace/reader, wc 3.5k)

Summary: "I'm losing it," Grace says aloud. He gently lowers your arm to the mattress, then stands with a wince, the movement making it clear how hard he’s gotten from thirty seconds of mouth-to-wrist action.

(or: the one where Earth sends Grace a mate, and Grace learns more uncomfortable truths about the things he'll do out of desperation. And also he comes in his pants.)

Tags: somnophilia, rape/noncon, oral sex (f!receiving), cumming in pants, reader has a vagina

A/N: 18+ only, and PLEASE mind the tags! The premise is that Earth sent a human to Erid post-canon to keep Grace company, but for medical reasons the human cannot immediately wake up until a predetermined date, so Reader is unconscious throughout the entire fic. Grace does his best to make sure she has a good time (kind of), but ultimately this is comatose!reader somno smut, so. yk. proceed with caution. and have fun <3

ao3 link

Your heart beats five times for every four of Grace's. He knows this because he's measured it, pressing two fingers to his neck and counting out his pulse again and again against the steady blip blip blip of the monitor by your bed. Every so often, you twitch. From the anti-atrophy electrostim shocks, he assumes. Some technologies never change, even after all this time.

There are twenty days left until you can wake up safely. Twenty Eridian days, just shy of three Eridian weeks. Not long at all, and less every (Eridian) second. He’s already waited years. Decades, really, counting all the time that got compressed by lightyear travel, counting all that time he was asleep. He can wait twenty days. He can.

It was easier to wait when he had no other option.

It was a surprise, you arriving here at all. He doesn't know how they organized it, or how they managed to pick someone so precisely his type. Did you volunteer? Or did—well, not Stratt, but whoever was elected as her great-grand-replacement—did they do to you what was done to him? Rocky doesn't have many answers to Grace's questions, or, if he does, he isn't exactly forthcoming with them, which makes Grace increasingly worried that you're going to wake up one day screaming into his face about how you were kidnapped off the street on your way to work or something.

Of course, there's no way of knowing. Not for another three(ish) weeks. So he waits.

Grace spends whole days, sometimes, watching you sleep, taking breaks only when someone else volunteers to suit up and spend a few hours in the biodome. It's ingrained in him. One of many ways in which he's culturally Eridian. Except he's not Eridian, not really; he can understand the language, sure, and he can translate relativistic physics and crack jokes and wear xenonite with the best of them, but he can't breathe the air. He can't eat the food. And neither of those things would be so bad if he could just touch someone.

He could now. If he wanted to.

He shakes his head. Twenty days ago, you weren't even a thought in his mind. It should be easy to resist you. It should be easy to sit, and watch, and wait. If you were awake, he could ask, but you're not, so he can't.

Though surely you wouldn't mind if he—if he just—

He stands up out of his chair before he realizes he's even moved. Five steps to cross to you. It's the closest you've. At first, he'd told himself it was to keep you safe from any unknown pathogens. You had to be given time to acclimate to your new surroundings, and to be tested in case you brought any particularly advanced bugs from Earth that could bypass Grace's out-of-date immune system.

But then he'd continued to keep his distance even after you were cleared. He wished he'd had an explanation other than fear, not of getting sick but of being sick. Like when he'd first landed on Erid, wobbly-kneed and downright rangy from years of subsisting off of nothing but coma slurry and taumoeba. The first time he'd tried a vitamin smoothie, he'd chugged the whole thing in minutes, and thrown it back up minutes later. The Eridians hadn't thought to stop him. They hadn't known about refeeding syndrome; how, after such prolonged and intense starvation, his body didn't know how to do anything but reject the thing it so desperately craved

That's how he feels now. This want—it scares him. You scare him, fragile and unmoving save for the rise and fall of your chest. Nothing between the two of you but fabric and air. It burns him just to look at you. He's terrified of what a touch might do.

Your fingers curl softly by your hip. He reaches out and—nothing, at first. He hovers. An electrode goes off. A muscle in your arm contracts and expands, moving your wrist with it, and your hand twitches, and brushes against his, and stays brushing it, and he's touching you. You're touching.

He can't remember the last time he felt something so soft.

He rubs his thumb back and forth once, twice. Even now that his skin hasn't melted off at the moment of contact, he's still scared of…something. That you'll disappear. Or, worse, that you'll disintegrate beneath his touch, like pigment rubbing off a butterfly's wing.

But no. You are soft, but not insubstantial. You are warm, and solid, your fingers curling to accomodate his as he winds your hands closer together, so that your palms touch. You are here. You are real.

He can't help himself. He lifts your wrist to his mouth, lingering almost too long for it to be considered a kiss. Your pulse flutters faintly beneath, and his lips part, breathing it in, this proof that you're alive. He presses forward again, and again, and again, feeling your pulse with his lips, with his tongue, feeling the way fingers graze his jaw with unconscious tenderness. Softer than Armando's artificial rigidity, more personal than the xenonite through which his every interaction with sentient life has been filtered for years. Your skin. Your fingers. He imagines what they'd feel like in his hair. Almost without thinking, his other hand drifts up, raking against the soft blonde grain to tug as he continues laving over your pulse point. He moans.

The vibration of sound through him snaps him back to the reality of the moment. You, asleep. Him, slobbering over your wrist with one hand fisted in his own hair.

"I'm losing it," he says aloud. He gently lowers your arm to the mattress, then stands with a wince, the movement making it clear how hard he’s gotten from thirty seconds of mouth-to-wrist action. Your clothing is wrinkled, mussed from the frenzy, revealing the tiniest sliver of stomach. He reaches out and drags his forefinger across it, back and forth, shifting up your shirt another millimeter, then pulls away.

Grace is no stranger to suffering. He suffered through a childhood without parents, through undergraduate years spent working graveyard shifts before seven A.M. seminars, through the grad school paper that ended his academic career before he had even really begun. He suffered through overzealous PTA boards, and budget cuts to the science department so that the football field could be renovated, until Eva Stratt came and plucked him back out of obscurity, making him feel just special enough for it to really sting when she had him shipped out to space against his will; and he’s suffered through burns and bone density loss and scurvy and grief and grief and grief and—

He takes in a shaky breath, running both hands down over his face, glasses knocked down to dangle off one ear.

The point is, he has faced a lot. Several lifetimes’ worth of a lot. But for some reason, in this moment, looking down at you, he feels weaker than he did in the days after waking up aboard the Hail Mary. Like his self-resolve got hit with a full gram of astrophage. Like he’s a toddler facing the hardest, cruelest marshmallow test in the history of this or any galaxy.

To do this—to do what his body is screaming at him to do—is tantamount to guaranteeing you'll want nothing to do with him. It's monstrous. It’s not like he didn’t spend years celibate before space. He should be better than this. If he does this, it means his desperation has changed him beyond any kind of recognition. It also means he will get to feel you.

If he stops now, you might decide to stay.

Might. There's always a chance you go back. And the odds are he'll be dead and gone, aging more and more rapidly under Erid's gravity, by the time Earth finds out and sends a replacement. This might be his only chance to touch another human being for the rest of his life.

His stomach turns, his conscience screaming at him even as he does nothing to remove his hand from the hem of your shirt. Your arm is still shiny with his saliva. His hand smooths up your waist. The shirt catches under the swell of your breast, so that he feels before he sees. Maybe that's—maybe that's better. Barely a brush of his thumb before your nipple is pebbled beneath his touch. If he doesn't look at you, he can pretend to be preserving your modesty. Pretend to you. Pretend to himself. He pinches your nipple gently, and when you let out a little breathy moan he almost chokes.

You don't wake up. But still, a reaction. You can feel what he's doing. You can respond.

An ancient fragment of memory resurfaces—you should talk to people in comas. They can hear you, and it helps them wake up. It sounds like bullshit. But he's a researcher, not an MD, and it's not something he knows enough about to feel comfortable dismissing as definitively untrue. Not when the stakes are this high.

"It's…okay," he says. "You're okay. You're healthy. You made it to Erid safely, and I'm Captain—Doctor—I'm Grace. Ryland Grace. Um."

There’s no indication that you can hear him, or that he’s done anything to induce an early end-of-coma. Your breathing is a little quicker than usual, as is the steady beeping of your heart monitor in the background, but nothing more.

"Just conducting some medical, um, checkups,” he continues. "Everything seems good, so far. I mean, you're breathing. And you're…"

The next breath you take seems almost to press your breast more firmly into his hand, nipple dragging across his palm.

"God.” He heaves in a breath. “Oh God,” he says, and buries his face in your neck. He’s on his knees soon after, still kneading your breast, his free hand dropping down to palm his cock.

You smell clean and warm, like soap, like skin, like the sweat that’s beginning to bead up as he drags a tongue across your jugular and listens to the heart monitor pick up. He keeps his hand above his own pants, just grinding against himself through the fabric. His other hand, the one on you, journeys lower, toying with your other breast for only a moment before feeling its way down your rib cage. Your waist, your stomach. When he reaches your hips, his hand tightens into a fist, gripping the flesh there as he shudders out a breath into your jaw.

He stays like that for a while; squeezing your hip, dry humping his own hand, resisting the urge to do anything with his teeth that could leave a mark. He wants to, so badly, so, so badly; wants to bite, to bruise, to leave some kind of evidence that this is real. Like that would prove you were both here. Like that would make it impossible for you to leave.

The idea alone gets him close, which makes him somehow more ashamed, as though he hadn’t summited Mount Pathetic the second he learned what your skin tastes like. But it’s enough for him to stop. It takes effort to keep from rutting forward. Just a few more seconds, and he would have been there. But the denial is its own kind of bliss; a punishment, justly earned. After all that suffering, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to face a consequence for something he’d actually done wrong.

It’s comforting. There’s a cleanness to it. A rightness. Grace doesn’t deserve to finish. And he doesn’t deserve to touch you, not any more than he already has. But you deserve to feel good.

He wants to give you that.

The EMS device is silent next to you, resting before its next preprogrammed shock. Maybe shock is a strong term—it wouldn’t be painful even if you were awake. The electricity is just enough to trick your muscles into thinking you’re walking, or lifting moderate weights, or doing anything else besides lying comatose while the last man on Erid gropes you.

He rubs his lips back and forth lightly across your collarbone one more time, before standing up. “One second,” he mutters, his voice rougher than before, talking to you over his shoulder as he walks around the bed to the machine. “I have an idea.”

He flicks a switch from Automatic to Manual, and gently peels one of the electrodes off your stomach. The skin underneath is slightly red, indented; he runs his thumb across it, feeling the goosebumps that rise in response, as he uses his other hand to bring the pad up to the apex of your thighs.

If he tries hard enough to rationalize it to himself, he can say this is maintenance; like rolling you over to prevent bedsores, or changing your sheets. Preventative orgasms, or something. Scheduled lubrication—except that makes it sound like you’re a machine, rather than the soft, warm, breathing miracle you are; and he’ll never actually get to know if you’re wet or not, anyway, because he doesn’t touch you directly, just slides the pad beneath the hem of your pants. He smooths it over your mons, just shy of your slit, then uses every ounce of willpower he has to slide his hand back up. The heel of his hand grazes back across the short, coarse curls. Just like that, he’s hard again.

He breathes in and out hard through his nose. This is for you, he reminds himself. Not for him.

It takes another deep breath in and out for him to get a handle on himself. Then he reaches back in to move the electrodes on your legs up to your inner thighs; and then, finally, he turns on the machine.

The contractions come on immediately, but slowly. He watches the movement of muscles beneath skin, hears your heartbeat quicken with each one. And then, like a dream: another sound, from you. A whimper. His eyes flick up to your face to see your lips, still pressed together, and your brows—oh, your brows are slightly drawn.

He reaches without looking, his hand feeling through the thin fabric for the nub of your clit. He permits himself one circle. Two. Three. His other hand slides back up under your shirt. The conviction that this is for you frees him from his earlier ban on undressing you; he lets his wrist drag up the hem, following the flush that is spreading up your stomach all the way to your neck.

He leans down to pull your nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking back and forth until it's stiff enough to suck on, allowing himself to gently graze it with his teeth. This draws new, delicious sounds from you. When he looks up, your lips are slightly parted.

His own jaw hangs slack, the hand between your legs slowing from quick circles to a slow, heavy back-and-forth, pressing against your clit in time with the pulses from the electrode.

“That’s it,” he says, no longer even really processing the words coming out of his mouth. “C’mon, baby.” The pet name feels strange on his tongue, foreign, but he’s too far gone to even feel embarrassed anymore. “Baby,” he tries again, mouthing the word against your chest as your abdomen tenses beneath his arm. "Is this even—it's been so long since—I'm sorry—I just have to—"

He kisses his way down your stomach, dragging your pants off haphazardly. Your underwear almost comes with it, but clings on at the last second. He leaves it be. Another form of penance. Though it's hard to feel like anything is a punishment, anymore, when he's crouched down with your legs draped over his shoulders, your thighs.

"I just—" He exhales. "It's fine like this," he says, mostly to himself, as he wraps a hand back around your hip, thumb pressing back against your slit. He rubs through the fabric. Only one layer, so he can feel more clearly the outline of you behind it, the way it slips back and forth through the wetness that's pooled at your entrance. "It's not—it isn't really anything, if it's just this."

Just you, writhing semi-clothed on the bed. Just him, resting his cheek against the pillow of your thigh and watching himself rub soft little circles into your clit. This close, he can smell the salt of you, skin and blood and need. If he leans forward a little more—if he lets his tongue loll out—

He presses the flat of it against you. At first, all he tastes is grey cotton underwear. Then the electrode goes off again, at the same moment he presses his palm down on top of it, thumb still grinding slow and mean over your clit, and you gush enough to start soaking through the fabric, aided by his spit bleeding through from the other side. The wetness makes your underwear cling closer still to the dip of your cunt. He feels his tongue press deeper, a promise at your entrance that the layer of fabric prevents him from fulfilling, and you must feel it, you must, because the whimper you let out is pretty as any Eridian chime.

His free hand wraps around your other leg, fingers digging into your thigh as he helps you grind against his tongue. Your moans are low, and quiet, each one strumming at something deep inside him until he thinks he might just come in his pants listening to you, but this isn't about him. This is for you, and he doubles down, triples down in earnest, drooling against you until you're so soaked that it's nothing at all, really, to nudge your panties to the side and let his tongue press in deep where you need him.

You need him, you need him; you are hot, wet silk around him. His thumb slips under, too, pressing directly to that little bundle of need, and he feels and tastes the way you squeeze around his tongue as he rubs and presses and moans into you. You need him to make you feel good. You need him to guide your hips in the rhythm that pulls the best sounds out of you. You need him to help you fuck yourself on his tongue as his hands work your clit and your nipples and all the rest of you, until you're clenching more and more rhythmically under his mouth, and the monitor beeps faster than ever, and your toes curl against his back.

He's done for as soon as he feels you come. Both arms wrap around your hips like a vice, pinning you down through the convulsions, and just as the heart monitor reaches a fever pitch he feels his own pulse skyrocket to match, jerking forward in rhythm with yours as he shoots a load right in his goddamn pants.

He doesn't move for what feels like a long, long time. Neither do you, obviously, except for a light electrostim convulsion.

Finally he shifts, turning his head to kiss your thigh again.

"Please stay,” he whispers into your skin. “Please. I'll make you feel so good if you let me."

You’re dewy all over, slick with sweat and cum, a streak of it drying on your underwear. He’ll have to change your clothes. Sponge you off, too. He can picture it so clearly already, the way the soap will slide over your breasts and between your thighs and along the curve of your waist, all of you bared for him at last. He’ll be good this time, he promises himself. He’ll behave; just a bath, and clean clothes, and then back to bed for you, untouched for another three weeks.

He wonders if there are dimples at the base of your spine. Little indents to press his thumbs into when he fucks you from behind.

If he ever fucks you from behind, when you wake up. Of course. Of course. Twenty days. He can wait. He doesn't have to gorge himself, now that he's proven that you're real. Now that he remembers what a touch feels like. Now that the itch in his fingers has a tangible memory to reference, as he drags up your pants over your hips, smooths your shirt back down, and crawls up the bed to curl up around you.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt, if he just held your hand. Before he washes you and clothes you and goes back to acting like this never happened. He's earned that, surely? He's suffered enough to earn palms kissing, your fingers twining and twitching closer to his as if in agreement. Beneath his ear, your heartbeat settles back into a familiar rhythm: pulse to pulse, skin to skin, five to his four as he falls asleep.

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