godlight series (ongoing) jack abbot x f!attorney!reader: working as in house counsel means you've become very acquainted with jack abbot and his little scrawl of a signature. god help him.
pixie cut (wc: 5.9k) | jack abbot x f!former army medic!reader: you can always count on jack abbot to throw you in situations that make you want to betray the hippocratic oath.
drip feeding parts of an unfinished ryland grace x reader fic until I finish it
Stratt moves through the crowd with ease, the sudden rush of people pouring from the doorframes abruptly stopping, the clamor of bodies slamming together filling the hallway. The few personnel who decide to brave intersecting the path of the determined woman are immediately received with a tired glare. The redhead pushes past—and really that’s overstating it. They part for her, for the most part—not sparing a second glance.
One young kid doesn’t get the Red Sea memo and has to shove himself out of the way, back meeting the cinderblock walls with a smack.
You shoot him a sorry about her smile.
“Yeah, I’m… Sorry, circling back—” You angle your shoulders to the side, narrowly passing between two men. “I’ve already been enlisted by you, I thought?” you say, voice so confident it ticks upwards in an obvious insecure question. “Or did I just wander onto a military aircraft in the middle of some ocean by mistake?”
Stratt shoots you a displeased look, weary lines on her face deepening with either your inability or your unwillingness to understand her. Her steady gait slows to a stop, turning and deliberately catching your eye.
“I want you to participate in Project Hail Mary,” Stratt stresses.
Oh.
Oh no.
“Oh, no.” Perfectly eloquent, you think. You give a small smile and hold your hands up in polite refusal. “I’m not Catholic.”
“No,” she denies your denial. You blanch. “Welcome to the team, Doctor.”
Several indistinct noises make their way out of your mouth.
“It’s more of a—” Stratt turns on her heel and begins to stride away leaving you to trip on your feet to follow. Quickly righting yourself, you raise your voice slightly in a desperate bid to have the sound waves reach her ears before she leaves you in the dust. “I’m more of a, um, nondenominational researcher. No Hail Marys required. I could uh—” you turn your body at the last second to avoid shoulder checking some guy into fucking oblivion, “compromise with an Our Father, though?”
In front of you, the woman sharply rounds the corner. Feet naïvely trying to copy her neat pivot, the rubber soles on your ratty old shoes, worn from years of pacing in front of white boards and knees bouncing so hard in focus you were afraid the joints might hit their resonance points and vibrate out of their sockets, momentarily lose traction on the high-gloss linoleum floor.
For a terrifying second, your world slants, everything once neatly horizontal and vertical becoming horrendously diagonal. Scrambling, your arms shoot out and uselessly windmill, trying to catch anything that might relocate your center of gravity that seemed to flee to a different fucking continent.
And then you freeze.
And stand there, kind of dumbly, in a straight up crucifixion pose, one foot slightly in front of the other, knees bent and ready for the Roman Legion to start pouring out of the walls, arms perfectly perpendicular to your body.
All that chatter just to immediately hit the most famous stance in history.
Fucks sake.
That has to be a sign.
Abruptly, you force yourself into motion again, legs pumping to catch up with the redhead.
“Look, Miss— uh, Doctor?— Title Stratt,” you try to catch her attention. “Space is very not in my wheelhouse. In fact— thank you,” the soldier holding door open gives a single, cool nod in response, “In fact, it's so far out of my wheelhouse it's, like, in the wheel factory.”
Turning your head back to the woman in front of you, you almost don’t have time to stop before you would slam into her back at full force. Shoes squeaking under the friction, you skid to a stumbling stop, hands up and ready to apologize.
Stratt’s stupidly immaculate posture somehow straightens further as she steps to the side to let you in.
Stepping over the threshold, you realize you made a grave error in thinking you were following her into another meeting. In front of you, the claustrophobic entryway opens up into the former-supply-room-now-hangout-space. Couches commandeered from officer quarters, tables still bearing marks from cigarette ashes haphazardly smushed together to play cards at, just enough wood polish and beer to almost mask the smell of the ocean air beyond the walls.
And nestled comfortably into the worn cushions are the crew of the Hail Mary. Plus Grace.
“Oh, bad. This is— hey, Ryland—horrible. This is all,” you drag the word out with a nervous chuckle rattling the letters, “a mistake.”
A mistake, but you were all but led on a leash into what seems to be an ambush.
With clarity, you suddenly realize that she is not joking.
“Oh, come on, man. I— I have a dog,” you plead weakly.
You don’t have a dog.
“You don’t have a dog,” Stratt echoes your sentiments.
“A plant,” you revise.
Also a lie.
“No, you don’t.”
Is she in your head? What number are you thinking right now?
Unprompted, she says, “Four.”
You reel back. “What the f—”
“Doctor,” she interrupts smoothly, “we know with categorical certainty that we are not the only organisms in the universe.”
“On account of the—” Ryland elaborates.
“—astrophage, yes,” you finish.
Sitting comfortably on the couch, he waves at you. You wave back.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see the redhead tilt her head up to the ceiling with a long-suffering sigh, and you almost want to point out that it’s her own fault that you and the molecular biologist are ever in the same room together.
And it’s especially not your fault that he matches your freak.
She brings a hand to her temple, lightly massaging in a useless attempt to erase the special headache that accompanies you and the scientist in proximity of one another.
After a second, Stratt continues. “It is not far-fetched to assume that there are others out there with whom we might need to communicate.”
Unbidden, your hands come up, hovering over the rogue strands of hair that escaped in the wind-tunnel they call the deck. You have to fight the urge to grip the strands like a chimpanzee whose habitat is under threat. Instead, you smooth the locks and tuck them behind your ears.
The weight of her words dips your head down slightly, chin pressing on your vocal cords and stretching your voice taut. “…are you gonna kill them?”
“This is not a joke, Doctor—”
Your arms drop.
“Look,” you hedge, shoulders raising steeply. “I will give you that aliens exist. But you guys… I— I mean you’re smart. Crazy smart. That man—” You point an accusing finger at Ryland. “—is wearing a shirt that says this shirt speaks volumes and has little… geometry things on it. A stupid person couldn’t wear that!”
The man in question looks down at the shirt like he forgot he was wearing it. You watch as his oddly delicate scientist hands hook into the material of the grey hem, tugging the worn fabric tight to get a better look at the design stamped into his chest.
A pink tinge creeps across the tops of his cheeks. His lips twitch like he’s trying to keep a smile from taking up residence—a war Ryland ultimately loses, because by the time he looks back at you, his expression is so dorky and sweet that you have to take your little crush on the doctor out back and shoot it between the eyes to keep your focus pristine.
You take a deep, steadying breath that somehow sends you more off kilter than before. “What I am trying to say is that you don’t need me to—on the tiny, small, microscopic, infinitesimal chance you meet an alien, like… I mean, I trust I won’t need to do anything there.”
Under your feet, the carrier creaks with a haunting groan.
God, even this fucking thing is already mourning you.
“And, also also," you add desperately, "just think of the total waste of money that would be.”
Stratt walks forward and rounds the couch, standing behind the crew and placing her hands elegantly behind her back, effectively creating a human barrier.
The muscles in your face twitch, viscerally wanting to furrow your brows and squint at her in confusion.
Before it can win, displeasure swiftly moves into the straight line of your mouth and ticks a single eyebrow up fractionally towards your hairline. Eyes darting from person to person, it registers that she’s basically using them as a human shield. The crew is one more obstacle you’d have to overcome if you want to throttle her with your bare hands, you suppose.
She taps the backrest gently, staring at you. “Are you done?” she asks.
You mentally scrunch your sleeves. “Done? Not even fucking close—”
“Good.” Stratt has the audacity to smile and you take a single, stumbling step back.
“No— You— Okay. Okay. Okay! Are—” You suddenly remember the rest of the crew is sitting on the couch, just chilling and watching this entire exchange. “Are any of you going to say anything?”
Ilyukhina’s accented voice responds. “We have had a meeting earlier and are all in agreement.”
“Oh, awesome.” You give a crisp, exasperated wave. “Thank you for your contribution.”
“Of course, roomie.”
You roll your eyes at her and seek out the startlingly blue ones on your friend. For the first time since stumbling off the possessed jet that brought you here, you wonder if he knew something you didn’t. You wonder if he knew Stratt was going to rope you into this. You wonder if he kept something from you. You wonder if—
Alright.
That’s—
This is getting too convoluted.
Ryland would simply never fucking do that. So, jot that down, brain.
Also, you’d be willing to bet money that if Ryland came within a five-mile radius of telling a lie, he would get so red that he’d blend into the projected infrared views of the Petrova Line.
You clench your jaw.
“You either agree and accompany the crew on the Hail Mary, or…” Stratt trails off with a small shrug.
You narrow your eyes. “Or?”
“Or—”
“Or,” Ryland echoes under his breath. “Like seals.”
“Or,” Stratt repeats pointedly. He sinks down into the cushion.
“Sorry,” you interrupt their weird little standoff. “I didn’t realize I had a choice.”
“Of course you do,” she replies simply. “You can choose how you want to say yes.”
“Would, uh—” The weight of your entire body shifts, arm extending to lean against a table to your left. Misjudging the distance, you find air where solid wood should be. You stumble cooly. Righting yourself, you cross your arms over your chest. “Right. Would, uh… I could get a band together? We could sing it, maybe? We’d have to rehearse, of course— Ryland? Piano? You in?”
Tan skin around his sad eyes crinkles, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He shoots you a double thumbs up.
summary: ryland finds himself in bed with you. he's a little out of practice.
word count: 2.2k
tags: gn!reader + vague anatomy; established relationship; smut (pwp, masturbation, anal, light body worship, praise, talkative!ryland); takes place before phm events (no spoilers!).
a/n: tried to make this as neutral as possible bcus we ALL deserve to get freaky with this nerd <3
“Okay, so, for starters — since we’re here and all — I would just like to say that it’s been about five or so years since I’ve, you know… Done the devil’s tango, if you will. Just to warn you. No pressure.”
Ryland’s word vomit arrives as gracefully as a plane crash, right after you have both stripped down to nothing and settled beneath the sheets of your queen-sized bed (a delightful upgrade from Ryland’s springy, busted twin bed back at his apartment). He’s been sweating bullets for the last hour of your impromptu make out session, and he’s been hard for about eighty percent of that time. You’ve lost count of how many times he groaned in the past twenty minutes from accidentally nudging his erection against your thigh.
Needless to say, you already figured he was a little out of practice.
“That’s fine,” you murmur from below, your head cushioned by a pillow. “I mean, the last time I slept with anyone was…” You pause, brows furrowed in thought. Ryland watches your hands leave his hair only to start counting on your fingers, muttering under your breath, until you give up, settling on, “It’s been a while for me, too.”
Ryland sighs in relief, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Good.” Then, reflexively, his head pops back up. “I mean— Not good. Sorry. That was very selfish of me. You deserve to have— you should get to, you know— bed someone as you wish. Make love. Get frisky. Et cetera. I mean, look at you, how could anyone not—? Well. Anyway… that must have been rough.”
A snort escapes you at Ryland’s inability to use the word ‘sex.’ And did he… speak in a British accent for a moment there? It’s a bit unclear what dialect he was going for.
Regardless of his awkward, sporadic behavior and ceaseless talking, you’re familiar enough with this song and dance that you don’t hesitate to return your fingers to his hair, lightly scratching his scalp. The action, as per usual, makes him melt like putty in your hands.
“Yeah, let’s maybe not get into the humiliating details,” you muse, tugging him down for a chaste kiss. He moans into your mouth, his body sagging atop yours. He tries to nod in response to your words, but his lips are still smushed against yours. Not to mention his glasses are still hanging on for dear life and poking your cheek. You gently push him away, remove them, and set them on your nightstand; Ryland flashes a sheepish smile.
“Sorry,” he says. “You know me. Forgot I was wearing them.”
“Uh-huh,” you nod slowly, tugging him down again. “Shut up, handsome.”
Ryland kisses you like he’s been starving for it, panting against your mouth from the effort it takes to focus on just this moment. He doesn’t want to start humping you like a dog in heat, even though he sure feels like one right about now. He gets dizzy off your shared breath, nudging his nose against yours between heated kisses. His hands are shaking — partially from holding himself up, but mostly because he’s scared to touch you. All he keeps thinking about, even now, is how mortifying it would be if he disappointed you even a little bit. He’s out of practice and definitely way too old to be floundering over a kiss, but being in your bed after months of wet dreams and sighing your name into his pillow is a step he didn’t think he’d ever take. Fortunately for him, you were brave enough to finally bring it up and drag him into your bed.
“You can touch me,” you mumble against his mouth, noting his hesitation.
“Right.” Ryland swallows. His lips stray to the corner of your mouth, then further to your jawline. He hides his face there, heart hammering against his rib cage, to ask, “Where?”
Although Ryland drudges up a myriad of self-deprecating thoughts upon asking, you happen to find the question terribly sexy.
“I’ll show you,” you mutter, already searching for his hands. You guide them over your body, letting his palms splay across your bare skin. His breath catches. Ryland reels his head back to get a good look at you while his hands explore — kneading at mounds of flesh, lightly pinching your nipples, caressing the curves and dips of your body. He’s meticulous in his search to find out exactly what makes you tick — a scientist after your own heart.
His cock is leaking against your thigh. It’s been in such a state for nearly an hour now; Ryland hasn’t quite found the courage to give himself to you yet. Hell, he hasn’t even dared to grind against you for fear that he’ll empty himself all over your stomach by accident.
Eventually, you turn on your side, shuffling around on your bed. Ryland watches with a growing flush as you get into position, taking his hand into your own and leading it to settle between your thighs. “Here,” you finally murmur, patient as a saint. Ryland’s heart nearly stops altogether when you guide him to where you’ve been aching just as badly as him. He drags the tips of his fingers over your arousal — wet, warm, and patiently waiting for him to get his shit together.
“Good God,” he whines, his voice cracking. Your hips jerk upward when he applies pressure, stimulating your sensitive nerves; he nearly loses all composure the second you moan in response.
“Ryland,” you whisper, squirming beneath him. You’re torn between jerking your hips forward or holding them in place; your body can’t seem to decide which is more appealing.
“Uh-huh?” He can’t rip his eyes off your body, slack jawed as he strokes your leaking heat. Ryland’s hand suddenly redirects, fingers slipping into his mouth — his tongue swirls around them, messily wetting the digits — before traversing around your hip. He watches his finger gently prod at your rear, slowly slipping into you. Your body gives in with ease, and he marvels at your sharp breaths and sighs when he pumps his finger in and out — slowly, curling just so, angling his hand to let you receive another digit.
Your throat bobs when you swallow, chest heaving. With a shaking hand, you reach behind you to touch Ryland’s chin. With his attention caught, you tug him closer, pulling him into your orbit. He falls into it without hesitation, allowing you to bring him in for a slow, heady kiss whilst he continues to work you open.
If you weren’t already as worked up as you are, you wouldn’t mind staying like this for a few more hours. He’s warm and tender, expertly balancing his weight above you. For all his fumbling up to this point, Ryland has managed to far exceed your expectations — and, surprisingly, even his own. Not bad for a couple of out of practice losers.
“Ry,” you sigh into your pillow, closing your eyes to focus on him. “You can— I’m good, if you want to… to…” You trail off, too busy jerking your hips back to really finish your thought.
Ryland gets the gist of it. In response to your invitation, the man shifts his hips forward, pressing his flushed cock against your ass. He eases his way in, a ragged groan escaping him. You can feel him panting against your cheek as he hovers behind you, working his way inside your rear, slowly filling you up. Ryland bites his tongue, squeezing his eyes shut. He sinks further into you, fisting the sheets as he bottoms out.
“Fuck,” he sighs, hanging his head low enough that his nose touches your cheek. “Fuck. That’s good. You’re— Jesus, you’re perfect, so fucking…” He trails off, muttering a long, unintelligible string of curses beneath his breath. Ryland doesn’t dare to move until your hips cant backwards, eager for friction, wanting for more. He responds in kind, slowly reeling his hips back before swaying into your orbit. The roll of his hips is heavenly; you moan, reaching behind you. Your hands flail around, searching for his thigh, desperate to pull him in for every deep, languid thrust that fills you.
“So tight,” he mutters once his forehead drops to the crook of your neck. “So, so good. God, you’re good.” His body is flush to yours, focused less on going deep and more on simply feeling you all over him. Ryland’s hands start to wander of their own accord, gripping your hips to help you rock against him, locking your sweaty bodies into a desperate rhythm.
When his thrusts start to become increasingly heavy, you remove your hand from his thigh to slip your hand between your legs. He doesn’t notice at first, not until you start to whine a bit from the stimulation.
Ryland picks his head up to look at you before averting his gaze downward. He licks his lips, eyes darkened to a sultry expression.
“Let me,” he boldly insists, already sliding a hand down to meet yours. His hand replaces yours; you keep it there, hovering over his for guidance, but Ryland already seems to have you figured out. The pads of his fingers press against the most sensitive parts of you, getting you off whilst his hips rock into yours. You gasp, clutching his wrist and dropping your mouth open in a perpetual moan.
“There? You like that?” Ryland asks huskily, panting against your ear with barely-there composure. You wonder if he knows how attractive he is at this moment — so unlike his usual self. More confident, more sure of his actions.
Regardless of whether he realizes how well he’s doing or not, you nod, moaning wantonly. “Yes, yes. Right there.”
You’re both a breathy, sweaty mesh of limbs, clinging to each other and chasing a high that seems increasingly within reach. Ryland is further ahead of the curve than you are, whining against your neck.
“I’m almost— Fuck, you feel amazing— Can I come inside you? I can’t, I can’t pull out… Too tight, I’m gonna lose it.”
His rambling is met with a fervent nod. As your legs kick against the sheets, Ryland pants like a dog, fucking into you sporadically. He spills his seed — hot and heavy — and groans so loud you jolt in surprise. The sound causes your muscles to squeeze around him; you’re nearing the edge now, barely hanging on.
Ryland remembers to stimulate your sex again, pushing himself up enough to slip his hand where it needs to be. He gets you off with quick, brutal force to your nerves, and you pulse against his deft hand as your orgasm hits.
Even though you’ve both cum already, Ryland’s hips don’t stop. He continues to bury himself inside you — raggedly working himself through the lasting remains of his release — while he sputters under his breath.
“Could stay here all day,” he mumbles. “Perfect, best I’ve ever had. Fuck, I can’t wait to make you cum again, babe. Fill you ‘til you’re dripping. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—”
If you weren’t so sensitive, you’d probably roll your eyes and laugh at his slurred prayer.
By the end of it, when Ryland has finally had his fill of you, he pulls out and fully drops his weight upon yours, too spent to keep himself upright. You release an oomph when he lays on you, squeezing the breath from your lungs.
“Ry—” You start, already nudging him off of you.
He groans, burying his face against your neck. From his place on your chest, you can see that the tips of his ears are bright red. He mumbles something that you can’t decipher; you poke his ribs.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
Ryland groans again, flustered and shaking his head. “Sorry. Sorry. Dunno what that was. Who even says that kind of stuff? Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
With a snort, you ruffle his already-messy hair, raking your nails over his scalp. “What are you sorry for? I liked it.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You pity me,” he whines. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”
You can’t help but scoff at that, yanking at a lock of his hair. Ryland yelps, turning his head to look at you.
“Who do you think I am, huh?” You poke his cheek, brow raised. “Don’t be silly. Enjoy the moment for once, won’t you?”
Ryland opens his mouth to argue, but — after a beat of consideration — he closes it. He props his chin on your shoulder, sighing through his nose.
“You are, as always, correct,” he mutters, looking at you with all the adoration a man can offer.
“Exactly.” You smile, fixing his hair back into place. It springs right back up, perpetually defying gravity. Your head tilts, searching his expression. “You know, you’re selling yourself short. That was really good for five years out of practice.”
Ryland perks up. “Really?”
“Really.”
The man cracks a smile, shifting to nuzzle his scratchy, stubbled cheek against your shoulder. “Well, you’ve only seen a fraction of my power.”
“Oh?” You laugh at the ridiculous, overly-serious tone he takes. “Do share more.”
“Give me ten minutes, baby, and I’ll rock your world.”
Advice: Always trust a scientist to deliver thorough results.
I’m just arrogant but every time they give Jack abbot screen time the more I’m like ya I could be in that room writing dialogue for him and his stupid little jokes
guys u don’t even know what I got cookin in the ryland pot...when I finish this....well lets justr say I love him
Still staring at the ceiling, he lolls his head to look at you, eyes soft and amused smile blinding. “Means they don’t react with anything. Outer electron shell is full.”
“Right,” you reply absently, eyes locked on his. Clearing your throat, you lean your elbow on the edge of the table and prop your head up. “What does that matter?”
“It matters because,” Ryland’s voice drops to a low hum and he moves a single inch closer, “usually, when explosions happen, it’s from a reaction when one atom really wants a full shell, so they steal or donate.” He shrugs. “With noble gasses that doesn’t happen.”
You raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Ever?”
He raises a confident eyebrow in response. “Ever,” he confirms.
“But, what—” Your eyebrows scrunch together, formless equations dancing in your vision. “Like, what if, uh, a commoner element like, um…” You wave in the air.
“Francium?” Ryland volunteers.
“Yeah, that fucking guy. What if francium wants one of argon’s electrons?”
“Won’t happen.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
Your hand covers your mouth.
You blink.
Your voice comes out a hushed whisper, vocal cords straining under the tension of your confusion. “…but why not?”
“Argon won’t give up his riches. Francium really wants to, but argon doesn’t want that electron. His shell is full.” He spreads his hands like he has no other choice but to bend to the will of something he can’t even see. “They’re at an impasse. Won’t happen.”
“Well, then grow— grow another shell,” you say more petulantly than you mean to.
Ryland drops his chin to his chest, obviously struggling as he tries to contain a chuckle. He hazards a look at you and has to drop it again, amusement forcing him to break contact to keep it together.
Finally, the scientist chokes out, “He can’t do that.”
“Stop laughing at me,” you demand, throwing a finger in the direction of the tank. “Ask— ask him why.”
