A little drabble of Jack Abbot x You. No CW. might or might not turn this into a full fic
“Jack Elliot Abbot!” Robby stops dead in his tracks walking to the sliding glass doors, turning sharply toward the night shift attending who is ready to start his shift “Why there are a wedding rsvp and a maternity leave application in my inbox from you?”
“Right, brother… it’s just a small ceremony at the church nearby” Jack shrugged innocently as if he is answering Robby’s question “we picked it so everyone could come after handoff.”
Robby’s eyebrows almost shot up to his hairline and his hand holding his phone is shaking. Dana is genuinely concerned he would have a heart attack right in his own department. He almost shouted through his clenched teeth “I’m asking why there’s a wedding invitation with two of my night shift attendings’ names on it and I don’t even know they’ve dated?”
Jack now pouts sheepishly, feeling all eyes inside the ER is staring at the back of his head “we um…forgot to tell you about that”
“I will go check on my patients first” Witnessing the entire fallout at the other end of the room as the other name on that rsvp, you gently whisper to yourself while reaching for the tablet under the dead gaze of Perla and Princess
pervy!gyno roleplay with jack when the two of you are trying to get pregnant to try and spice it up after a few months of negative tests. he straps you down to the bed, opens up your cunt with a speculum and jerks off straight into your hole <3
probably a stupid request but reader who is insecure about her side profile and feels so ugly when people can see her nose from the side. like she feels so undesirable because of it but jack is infatuated with her or something and she doesn’t notice until he admits it and she feels like it’s a prank because how could anyone find her attractive and it’s super sweet and fluffy.
(i genuinely have no idea if men care about that type of thing lol)
imma be real! if a man cares about that then it sounds like they may in fact be a bitch ass loser and needs to get a life…but that’s just my opinion 🤣 buuuuttt i got you!!
you and jack had been together for a little over eight months, during which he had spoiled and shown his love for you as often as he could. he’d spend any day he had off with you, he started to atten SWAT shifts less, and he even was hoping that you would want to move in soon. you truly couldn’t have asked for a more loving and assuring partner. despite all of his assurance, you still had issues loving your body and features.
your nose had always looked too wide or too big from a certain angle and it always made you insecure. you’d catch jack admiring your face during any activity and it became a bad habit to instinctively cower and hide your face from his eyes.
“baby why do you keep doing that” he asks, pulling your hand that was covering your face so he could see you again.
“just don’t want you looking at my nose…looks weird from the side” you turn your head fully towards jack to see his face screwed in confusion and displeasure. he looked speechless as his jaw dropped to reply but no words came out, so you continued. “i don’t jack…i just–i don’t understand why you’re with me. i mean look at me…there’s no way you find this…” you motion to your nose, “attractive”.
too put it simply, jack about lost it. he was pissed to hear you not only speak badly about yourself but also to question his love for you. his mouth was tightly in a firm line and his cheeks and the tips of his ear turned an angry red.
“knock it off, you know how fuckin’ beautiful i think you are so don’t even think about questioning that. in fact where’s you get this bright idea?”
“i don’t know, just always felt like it was too big.”
“well it’s not, in fact c’mere” jacks pulls you to sit in his lap, your butt resting on the thigh of his good leg and your legs strewn across his lap on the cushion of the couch.
you tried to tuck your face under his chin, but was stopped by his strong hand.
“uh-uh look at me.” he cups your jaw and positions your face to look at his. “baby i don’t know who told you were anything less than drop-dead gorgeous but they don’t know a damn thing. i’m so unbelievably enamored with you it’s almost hard for me to imagine that at one point i was living without you in my life.” he wrapped his hands around the nape of your neck to bring you into a long soft kiss.
he pulled away, but kept your foreheads touching. “you hear me?” a tear escaped your eye, jack wiped it away quickly with his thumb. “most pretty. beautiful. sweet. perfect. girl i’ve ever met” he said, peppering kisses between each word. he pulled you into a comforting hug, your side curled into his chest.
“i love you angel, with all my heart.”
your insecurities didn’t go away that day, but you knew that there was no doubt about how jack felt for you.
wow!!!! thank you all so so much for a thousand followers! i never thought that anything this magical would happen to me! and i’m so profoundly grateful to each and every one of you! mwah!!!
and now! it’s time to celebrate!
first choose a character from the list below!
brendon park!
titus danforth!
jack abbot!
michael robinavitch!
aaron hotchner!
john shen!
andrew cody!
next, choose a prompt!
secret relationship!
he just loves you much that…
smut, but you specify!
friends to lovers!
domestic life
hurt/comfort & angst
headcannons!
choose your own!
finally some add ons! and send me the request!
specify anything you want added and i’ll make sure to include it! this could be dialogue or details, really anything!
okay guys serious talk now. idk why we’re acting like robby would be mean during sex and jack abbot wouldn’t? have u seen that military propaganda man? who volunteers with swat and commonly supports the use of army medicine tactics? anyways here’s some abbot in camo appreciation, tw he’s mean in this tho. also this is the result to my poll! hope u enjoy! mwah
when you first moved in with jack, he hadn’t yet picked up swat. instead on his time off he would spend the days lounging with you, maybe the farmers market on saturdays and brunch on sundays. but even since he reunited with his buddy from the army when he came into the pitt wounded, and said buddy encouraged him to join swat with him, you felt like you hardly saw your boyfriend. so when he came home, you were obviously on him, quick as a whip. he was so exhausted though, and he looked so so good. so whilst he was eating the dinner that you prepared for him, you quickly situated yourself on his boot. ‘god what a needy slut you are, can’t even wait for me to take off my boot can you? gonna hump the dirty leather cause that’s all you’re good for, huh honey?’ you whimper at his harsh words, he must be tired, he’s never usually this snappy. regardless of your pettiness, you rut your hips over his laces, hoping to find the right spot where the synthetic fabric sparks against your clit. he lets you do that, occasionally lifting his foot up, just to change the pressure or to watch you fall out of balance and scramble to situate yourself. pretty soon, you come clasping hard on his calves and biting down on his knee. he just finishes his bite of the steak you made, and watches as you slide off him, his black shoes a mess of white and froth. ‘well, lick it up won’t you, it can be your dinner honey, you made it anyways’
The thought of stepping inside this building made Jack’s skin crawl.
Not because it was a social setting or anything– God, he hadn’t gotten that bad, had he? Maybe because it was Halloween, and Halloween was the precursor to all of the ridiculous bullshit they paid him the big bucks to handle.
Yeah, drunk people in costumes sounded like exactly the kind of thing to make him feel like this.
Definitely not the girl he was supposed to “just be meeting” tonight. The girl who was very much not Natalie. And very much not fifty.
Jack sat in the driver’s seat of his truck, willing his body to cooperate with his brain. He missed the military days, when everyone smoked just to get a break. A cigarette would buy him time. A cigarette would let him sit here in the darkness and stew in his misery a little longer.
It’s just drinks. He reminded himself. Soldier up, Abbot.
He throws his head back, letting the headrest jostle his brain just enough to trigger some sense of false bravery– not allowing him to second-guess himself as he swings his good leg out of the truck.
He tries to correct the extra movement in his gait, something a little heavier and a little less human that happens after a shift, every step reminding him of why he should have said no to this excursion in the first place, but he had promised Ronnie and the hassle of her incancessent hounding for not keeping his promise would be worse than braving the initial hurdle of nausea that racks his body every time he comes to an outing like this.
Sour Girl Records is a republic of voices tonight. The horrendously upbeat sounds of the B-52’s in the brick walls of the record shop put him in mind of dungeons. This is what they would play in a Russian holding facility, he’s sure. A hand-made butcher paper sign stretched from window to window reads, “FIFTH ANNUAL HALLOWEEN PARTY AND COSTUME CONTEST” in horrendously orange letters.
Jack has never felt like a social pariah; he has never struggled with fitting in with any particular crowd. Maybe it was all of the training in patient satisfaction and empathy and social expectations in the workplace that made him like this. Here, he knew to stick to the wall and blend into the wallpaper with Robby.
It’s not like Ronnie’s friends were weird. That almost didn’t exist to Jack anymore. But he felt the divide form between himself and the usual suspects of these after-hours record store parties the second he stepped in.
Exhibit A: Stage left, right now.
Someone, something, emerges atop the platform reserved for open-mic nights and whatever this was, a monarch. Through the congregation of whoops and hollers in front of him, he watches legs clad in fishnets with a seam up the back, some clunky shoe weighing down the contours of them, thrown around in a wild choreography of clacking and thumping.
Above, a sardine head, a relic of Sculpey and papier-mâché, donned with a near-offensive amount of bedazzling (and Jack would know; his mother was a public danger with a bedazzler), shimmied from side to side, tassels attached to whatever the fishy adjacent to nipples were, assaulting every one of his senses.
Jack remembers when Rock Lobster came out. Kill him now.
He understands his father’s distaste for the song now; though he could have come to that conclusion after being subjected to Love Shack on the radio more times than he ever could have liked. Though, weirdly enough, he also considers himself impressed, something about the way that dead, glassy eye stared back at him, like it didn’t want to be here, either.
You do you, he guesses.
As his nautical entertainer bows and closes out their routine, he is able to tear his eyes away to scan the room with tactical precision, finding Robby seated next to Ronnie behind the counter they converted into an open bar.
The matching cowboy hats, he recognizes first. And if the fleece-lined jacket and mustache Ronnie has donned are any indicator of this costume, Jack can assume that Robby may already be two sheets to the wind. Double kill him now.
Jack is ducking his way through groups clumped together, carefully willing himself to step around the landmines of bottles people have placed strategically in the walkway to trip him. He makes it about halfway through the room when a solid mass bumps his shoulder, vying for his attention.
“Hey, ” It says through layers and layers of fiber and paint and glitter. It’s his unfortunate mermaid friend. “Doctor Doom–”
Oh yeah, the scrubs. He supposes he could play it off as a costume. Logistically, who would know besides the two people who were dressed like Brokeback Mountain in the corner?
“Mind helping me out?” It asks, undeniably feminine.
He stares blankly into that dead, glassy eye again. Were you hurt? Stuck in the head of the fish? Was this a job that required the jaws of life? He didn’t feel qualified for this. This felt like the fire station’s job.
His spiral meets an abrupt end when a hand, subsequently attached to both a wrist and arm, emerges from the felt abyss of the mouth, lime green fingernails snapping open and shut, attempting to find the bucket beside you full of ice and seltzers.
“Oh, uh… yeah.” He squints, looking at the labels. “Black Cherry or Watermelon?”
“Cherry.” The hand motions, pointing in the general vicinity of the thing, groping around his forearm and traveling down to his wrist before settling on the prize as he hands it to you.
“Beautiful! Thank you!” It says, the hand ominously sinking back down into the depths with its drink. As he walks away, nodding in succinct welcome, he can hear the faint chirp of the can cracking from the belly of the beast.
Robby watches him with those eyes again, cheeks pushed up in that same smile that he gives him when he, yet again, has to politely staunch the advances from nursing students and patients alike. Like Robby knows something about Jack that he doesn’t.
He hates that look, and hates it especially when he’s dressed like Ennis Del Mar. That stupid suede jacket and gloves staring at him so fondly, it nearly makes him forget that he’s supposed to be miserable– that this is not where he wants to be.
“Jack!” Ronnie throws her hand hard enough across the counter that it rattles, drink spilling over the edge of the cup from where she holds it up towards him.
“Jack.” He nods back in greeting. Her eyes gleam with pride at his recognition. At least he could offer her this.
“Ennis.” He nods towards Robby, taking the beer gratefully from his hands as he settles himself next to him. Two parallel lines staring outwardly into the sea of bodies together, as they had done a thousand times before this.
Instead of the sterile fluorescents and 90s commercial-grade flooring from the nurses' station, there's an incandescent glow over the open floor of the record store. The stands have been pushed back against the walls to allow more space for mingling. Wonderful, it leaves the only place for Jack to hide here with Robby, not like he’s complaining. This is where he’d be hiding anyways.
Some of the costumes he gets: a classic black cat in the corner, someone with a witch’s hat floating around somewhere in the back; he swears he saw someone walking around with the ass end of a horse on– presumably looking for their other half. Some he did not get, especially the remake of Brokeback Mountain currently happening a la fake mustache behind him.
That big, dead eye catches him again from across the room, a mirror image staring back into the face of misery. Two fish, gasping for air, one begging to go home and the other wanting to drown. He couldn’t make up his mind about which one he wanted to be yet.
“Looking for someone?” Ronnie tears herself from Robby’s grip at last, her shoulder bumping Jack’s hard enough to make him sidestep.
“Just people watching,” He shrugs, peering at her over his shoulder. He knows that look, too, when she’s taken it upon herself to push him in the direction she thinks is good for him. He also knows she wants him to ask: “Aren’t you supposed to be introducing me to someone?”
Ronnie’s brows furrow, exceptionally accentuated by the way she’s stroking the fake mustache on her face. She looks out across the floor with him, looking for the one she’s played matchmaker with.
“You just met her.” She says instead, when she decidedly cannot find your face in the crowd.
“Oh?” He asks, trying to rack his brain for all of the faces he’s seen tonight.
“Fish legs.” Ronnie nods at him, searching around again, like you were somehow hard to miss.
“Oh.”
“What, you don’t like her?” Her brow is knit together so tightly now that Jack fight’s the urge to tell her it’ll stick like that. He sees this line of devastation threaten to spill across her mustached face. She’s sensitive when she’s tipsy.
“I don’t even know who she is.” He attempts to soothe Ronnie, this Robby-by-proxy that he allows to squeeze at his atrophied heartstrings.
“You look like you’ve already made up your mind.”
“I haven’t even spoken to her.”
She’s looking back out over the groups of people clumped together. Sour Girl looks like a page out of one of those I-Spy books, all costumes and object coagulated into one overwhelming mass, “I don’t even know where she– oh, there she is.”
You walk down the stairs from the upper level as one of Ronnie’s employees flips the record, The Wallflowers’ 6th Avenue Heartache reverberating off the walls of his empty vessel and serving as the backtrack to the new monarch that is you, sans sardine.
He recognizes the shoes first, like something that belong in a cartoon instead of on a real person, big and clunky heeled mary janes that follow the contours of your foot, the fishnets stayed on. He can see the hem of black athletic shorts from beneath the oversized Cannibal Corpse t-shirt that brushes your thighs. The lime green nails were the same ones that gripped his forearm in search of the black cherry seltzer that dangles precariously from them, mindlessly swaying from where you clink them against your rings. There’s a striped undershirt that clings against the curves of your wrist, leaving only your hands for him to watch. Suddenly Jack wonders what Black Cherry nooner tastes like.
It’s like some fucked up version of a wet dream. Twenty minutes ago he was watching you do some campy nautical burlesque, and now he’s supposed to be making polite conversation? He isn’t drunk enough for this.
Ronnie has already slipped from her place between Jack and Robby, bobbing and weaving through her store with practiced choreography. She meets you halfway up the stairs, and your eyes light up at the sight of her. He watches the way she holds your hand, follows the lime green nails as they wave at him. He’s almost stupid enough not to wave back.
Your shoes make the metal of the staircase rattle and, for a fleeting moment, he is worried about having to fix a broken ankle tonight.
He pushes himself up from where his elbows rest against the counter as you approach, and Robby claps him hard against the shoulder as a good luck. He’s gonna need it.
You introduce yourself to him, all niceties and wide eyes. Something past whatever was encased in papier mache and glitter. You don’t ask him about work, or his wife, or his leg.
Jack decides then that he’s going to take you home tonight. Kill him a third time.
