about me! obsessed with all things shawn hatosy, og bts stan (biases are yoongi and jin), part of too many fandoms to keep up with, i have so many celebrity crushes, reader and writer of fanfiction <3
current fandoms! the pitt, animal kingdom, southland, bts, michael jackson
Walking into Jack's stubborn ass trying to patch himself up was an... interesting way to start the morning.
A/N: My take on the 'if reader found Jack in the empty consultation room instead of Mohan' because it's such a good trope!! And finally something new that isn't from my drafts :)
Warnings: Reader is female, both her and Jack kind of hate each other (JUST KISS ALREADY), enemies-to-situationship, mentions of a bullet wound, inaccurate depictions of doctors (as I am not one), LOTS of bickering
WC: 1.2k
If you had a nickel for every time Jack Abbot did something stupid, you'd have enough to pay off a mortgage.
The man is incapable of asking for help - despite participating in the most dangerous activities.
Instead of spending his fourth of July barbequing with a group of close friends and family (like a sane person), he decides to dodge bullets for fun - acting as a medic all the while.
When you heard the news that Abbot rushed into the E.D. hours before his shift, decked out in SWAT gear, another officer in tow - you weren't surprised.
More annoyed than anything.
It was bound to happen.
With the amount of shit the man throws himself into, it's more of a shock that a mishap occurred this late in his life.
Knowing Abbot, he's scurried off somewhere to lick his wounds in private, away from the concerned eyes of his peers.
And for once, the gossip mill in the Pitt has found itself useful. According to reliable sources (Princess and Perlah), Mohan's diabetes patient - who's trapped under a mountain of medical debt, and now unable to afford further treatment - has ran off without so much as a word.
Consultation Room 6.
Sounds like the perfect hiding spot.
"What's the damage?" You announce bluntly, slamming the door open as noisily as possible.
He jumps in surprise, shoulders touching his earlobes for a brief second.
But once he took in just who barged in, his silver brows furrow, wrinkles deepening.
"You." Jack spits, scoffing before returning his attention to the task at hand.
The task being: tending to a bullet graze with the gracefulness of a toddler eating spaghetti.
The graze rests on his back - a dark, burgundy splotch stretching across his left shoulder. It's obvious the scrape isn't deep, but the skin is clearly irritated, especially when Abbot is prodding it with a long cotton swab the way he is.
"Yeah. Me." You roll your eyes, shutting the door and the curtains with a huff. "How long are you gonna keep this up?"
Snatching the swab from his hands, you level him with a glare.
A glare he gladly meets with his own.
"Keep what up?"
"Quit being a smartass for once in your life."
"You first."
Veins bloom across your temples, grinding your molars unconsciously, a whirlwind of frustration coursing through your entire body.
"Look," you start gently (as gently as you can), "you clearly can't reach back there. So, why don't you just allow me to handle this, and shut the fuck up?"
The ending could use some work, but all things considered, it's the nicest thing you've said to him... ever.
A smirk worms it's way up to Jack's face, smugness oozing out of him like factory smoke.
"I've got it." Is his response, tugging the swab dangling from your fingers - only to find himself unable to retrieve it.
In the mere milliseconds Abbot raised his hand to grasp the swab, you tighten your hold on it, making your intentions very clear.
His jaw slackens, hazel eyes looking up at you with confusion.
Raising an eyebrow, you urge him to try once more.
Jack may be stupid, but not that stupid.
Now that you're the center of his focus, you continue, "As I was saying, let me handle this, and not a word of it will exit this room."
The night shift attending eyes you with suspicion, "You're bullshitting me, aren't you?"
"Abbot, do I look like I have the time or the energy to share such mundane things with colleagues?"
He hums in thought.
"I suppose not," another hum, "so is this a 'what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas' situation?"
An unamused expression decorates your features, "If that gets you to agree with me, then sure." You mutter, settling yourself behind him - preparing all the necessary equipment to treat his injury.
Jack lets out a snort at that, "No funny business back there, you hear?"
"Oh, you wish, old man."
"Me? You're the one begging on her hands and knees to play doctor."
His choice of words makes your imagination wander... to more unsanitary activities. But you are not allowing a stupid man fluster you, not today.
Lathering your latex glove with granudacyn gel, you slap it onto the dip of Jack's back before it has a chance to warm up.
He yelps in response, and it brings you utmost joy.
"Behave, or I'm punishing you again."
"I hate you," he shudders out. "Such a drama queen."
"Well, maybe have some decorum instead of being an HR nightmare."
Jack whips his head back to meet your gaze, "Rich coming from you. If anyone out there heard you talkin' about punishment and shit would send you straight to Gloria."
Snickering, you force him to straighten, pulling at his silver curls firmly.
"Gloria can't touch me. Even she knows this place is understaffed enough as it is, can't afford losing more staff when we're dropping like flies."
Voice wavering, Jack winces at his hair being yanked, "Wouldn't count on it, sweetheart."
"Don't call me that," you mutter, the tips of your ears warming at the pet name, "your flattery might get you somewhere with other women here, but it sure as hell won't work on me."
Sensing your sudden change in demeanour, Abbot puts on a sly grin, "You sure 'bout that?"
Grabbing a new cotton swab, you dip it into new, clean gel, and press it against the graze, "Absolutely."
The action elicits a groan out of the night shift attending, his sensitive skin rejecting the treatment, "Jesus Christ, woman. Give a guy some warning."
"Men who voluntarily put themselves in harm's way shouldn't expect warnings," you state plainly, still spreading the gel to the surrounding area of the graze.
Jack laughs like he knows something you don't.
"Is that what this is?" He asks rhetorically. "Your way of worrying about little old me?"
The question stuns you, causing your movements to cease.
Were you worried?
Surely not.
About Jack?
There was no way.
Worrying about a man that's mere existence infuriates every atom of your being makes zero sense.
But it makes you think - ponder, more like.
Why the hell were you so pushy about treating him? Normal people would hear the first refusal and tuck tail immediately - but not you.
Shaking your head - as if you could rattle everything back in place - you think logically.
The only reason you did this was because you knew it would piss Jack off.
Evidently, it did.
Mission accomplished.
Hell, even warranting his taunt with this much thought is much more than he deserves.
Placing a piece of gauze atop the graze, cementing the gel inside to be absorbed, you finish the job with little trouble (other than the man receiving the treatment).
"You have no idea what you're talking about," you mutter as you wipe the gel from his previous punishment away with his long-abandoned shirt, "crazy old man."
"What the- hey! I was gonna wear that!"
"Figured as much, which is why I used it."
Jack lets out a sardonic chuckle, finally reaching his limit, it seems. "You are so going to pay for that."
After returning all the medical equipment to their respective drawers, you move to leave, "That a threat or a promise?"
Jack's been on a health kick ever since he turned fifty. So much so, he decides to drag you along with him to the gym.
A/N: Finally back!!!
Warnings: SELF-INDULGENT! Reader is female/fem presenting. A bit of backstory for this reader: she forged a doctor's note, her mum is a nurse practitioner, past insecurity (she's still insecure, but a little less), implication of reader being chubby, important-ish flashback, understandable hatred for cross-country. Self-deprecating jokes. Lots of leg jokes. Jack is 50, reader's age isn't specified, but around early thirties. Jack and reader live together, but aren't married (yet). Flirty Jack, what's new? Reader daydreams about Jack; kinda suggestive, but nothing you can't read in public. Mostly correct tenses, your girl's a genius! Half-assed ending because I have not been able to post anything lately and I'm having the jitters!
WC: 2.1k
You were never the athletic type, considered ‘weird’ in your younger years.
Cross-country was the worst.
Not only were you forced to unnecessarily run seven and a half miles, but must train daily to prevent muscle stitches and cramps. During the dead of winter, no less.
Convinced it was torture; you forged a doctor’s note just to escape.
And it would’ve earned you a four-week suspension, too.
The principle was furious, obviously well-read on your hatred for any physical activity.
You overheard his secretary murmur about a possible expulsion – just imagining it caused you to spiral.
Luckily, your mother claimed the clinic’s printer at was defective, the ink often exploding, deeming the documents illegible. So, to alleviate the situation, she chose to print the note at the department store instead.
Suspicion was evident on the principle’s face, but how was he supposed to argue that? He had no proof that your mother was fabricating the story – she was a law-abiding citizen of the community!
Not to mention, she was a nurse practitioner. Who works at said clinic.
You got off scot-free that day. For the most part.
Slamming the car door, causing the windows to rattle, “Grounded. For three months!” Your mother screeched, a mere inch away from cursing at your face.
“You’ve made a liar out of me!”
The lecture continued for a majority of the drive. You stared out the window, eyes welling, barely containing sobs.
Your mother noticed. She always did.
Her eyes softened at the sight of you picking the skin of your lip.
Stroking your cheek with her knuckles, she gently asks, “Why’d you do it, honey?”
“Because I look stupid.” You sniffled, rubbing mucus across the sleeve of your hoodie. “I get so gross after running. My hair’s a mess, my clothes soaked with sweat, and my breathing so laboured it’s the reason Antarctica's icecaps are melting!”
She snickers, “That’s to be expected, bub.”
“No, it’s not! You don’t get it, mum. All the other girls finish training looking like Victoria Secret models; running with their hair down, clothes completely dry, and without so much as a lick of sweat on them! It’s as if they remained still.”
“Then they aren’t doing it right,” your mother huffs, parking the car in your garage.
Waterworks were always effective when it came to your mother. She couldn’t stand the sight of her little girl (you’re still her baby, no matter what) weeping, especially if she raised her voice beforehand.
So effective that it lessened your grounding from three months to a week.
You never forged again.
However, you did plead your mother to write up a sick note whenever cross-country rolled around.
It surprises you that the memory returns nearly two decades later.
All because your fifty-year-old ‘boyfriend’ (he feels far too old for that term) proposes that you accompany him to the gym.
Jack’s been on a health kick ever since he hit the big five-zero, determined to remain agile for as long as possible. Protein shakes, vitamins, supplements, and nutritious meals are commodities in your household.
“This is all for you, sweetheart. If doing all of this will grant us more time together, every disgusting salad I eat will be worth every bite.”He says with a wink, grimacing while taking a large gulp of his green smoothie.
Jack never said he enjoyed eating healthily.
But hitting the gym regularly? That he can do.
He usually follows a PPL routine: Push, Pull, Legs (or in his case, just Leg), Mondays are for cardio, and Fridays focus on full body (somewhat, anyway).
He spends hours on the power rack, lifting almost double your weight – and it shows. You can see it when he crosses his arms; shirt straining at the motion, and you swear you can hear threads snapping.
Or when he kneels to pick something up, his left calf bulging due to the amount of muscle. To be honest, it scares you sometimes. It looks as if it could pop under the slightest pressure.
And don’t get started on his torso. You relish at the thought of it.
So, while you don’t participate in rigorous exercises like Jack, you can appreciate the effort he puts in to look delectable while keeping his body in good shape.
That is, until today.
“Although… you gotta suffer with me, buttercup. It’s only fair. In sickness and in health, right?”
“Hold on! First, we aren’t married-”
“Yet.”
“-and second, you choose to do this! So, in return, I should get the choice to opt out of it.”
The older man shakes his head, “That’s not how this works, sweetheart.”
Placing his smoothie on the marble countertop, he drops his hands onto either side of your hips, “Just think about it! You get to ogle me, and I get to ogle you. The both of us hot and heaving, getting some exercise in. It’s a win-win situation,” Jack moves his thumbs back and forth, massaging the plump skin of your waist.
Your eyes dart to the cupboard behind Jack’s head, pondering his offer. On one hand, you’d be delighted to watch the magic happen in front of you, rather than just witnessing the aftermath.
On the other... the same emotions you felt all those years ago come rushing back. Feeling inadequate for not being as fit as your peers, anxiety coursing through your veins when putting on sports gear - the curvier sections of your body suddenly exposed – looking like a soggy meatball after every P.E. class.
But this is Jack we’re talking about.
Your Jack.
The same man who dreaded revealing his amputation when you first met; worried it would scare you, worried it would show how damaged he is, worried you’d leave him for someone complete.
Always so critical of himself, while adulating every detail of your existence – each tucked away in the depths of his heart, cemented there, perpetually storing new information.
Flitting your gaze to meet his, you cave.
Sighing, you tug at his silver curls, "Fine. But if you find yourself thinking I look like an obese swine while working out, it’s your fault.”
Jack’s breath hitches at the pull, “Buttercup, if I ever think like that I want you to smack me into next Tuesday, you hear?” He arches a brow, urging you to comply.
“Oh, I’d do far worse than that, hon.” You retort, mockingly patting his chest.
He titters, pressing a delicate kiss to your temple, “Good.”
Upon entering the ginormous gymnasium, the little confidence you had dissipates.
Brawny men and women surround the space, performing various activities that make you shrink inside.
You barely know how any of the machines function; resembling torture devices from the Renaissance period, or death-traps designed by Jigsaw himself.
“Stay with me now.” A snap echoes through your ears, Jack eyeing you with a concerned expression.
He slots his fingers between your shoulder blades, “This doesn’t have to be a whole thing, okay? If you just wanna jog on a treadmill today, that’s totally fine. I don’t expect you to throw yourself into the deep end.”
Jack’s got that love-sick smile on his face, the kind that conveys more than words ever could.
‘I’m proud of you for trying.’
‘You being here is enough.’
‘Thank you for entertaining my silly ideas.’
The calming effect is instantaneous; better than any herbal tea or white noise you’ve tried.
Suddenly, the task didn’t seem so daunting.
Despite Jack’s encouragement, it resumes to feel like a humiliation ritual.
Truly.
You’re currently running (if you could even call it that) on a treadmill, per his advice, feeling like an absolute buffoon.
Feet ablaze, heels of your shoe gnawing at your ankles, socks sopping thanks to heavy perspiration. Breathing is agony; like your lungs are the size of twisty balloons, hardly expanding from the harsh intake of oxygen. With every step, you anticipate a burst.
What an experience, am I right?
You can’t recall the last time you were this drained - you’d rather cosy up with a book or binge twenty-season TV shows as a pastime.
But most humiliating of all, Jack’s putting the other gym-goers to shame. He’s executing his routine with extreme precision, with very few intervals between sets.
There’s a sheen of moisture coating his physique, casting a youthful glow.
If the treadmill wasn’t already rendering you breathless, you’re sure just the sight of Jack would leave you winded.
A trail of dampness falls down his chest and back. His navy-blue singlet is an entirely different shade – in fact, if you had no idea what colour it was originally, you’d think it’s black.
God, the things you’d do to swipe back his ash-grey hair. It’s sticking to Jack’s forehead, and he makes no move to fix it.
Thoroughly ‘in the zone,’ as he’d say.
~
Shifting your attention from your quaking legs, you will yourself to picture more pleasurable situations.
Particularly about Jack.
Maybe if you’re lucky, he’d allow you to pat him down later. Dabbing a towel along his form, removing any leftover residue or grime. Then, you’d give him a massage to relieve his aching muscles – focusing on Jack’s nub.
Just the way he likes.
Soft gasps would escape his lips, eyelids falling shut, the back of his head melting into the mattress. When you hit a spot that’s too tender, he’d grab your wrist in a frenzy – halting your actions. He’d practically beg, ‘Don’t stop. Just... be gentle.’
Better yet, washing his hair in the bathtub. You’d lather it up with his favourite shampoo (your vanilla shampoo), and knead into his temples. He’d be humming and praising you the whole time; rambling sleepily about how he ‘needed this.’
At the peak of relaxation, Jack would lean his head back - situating himself on your kneecaps - and he’d ask for a kiss, all sweet-like. Yearning apparent in his eyes, a desire for his buttercup to know just how much he loves her.
And who are you to deny him?
Hunching your back, you’d let your lips meet his. Jack would grin into the kiss, the velvety exchange flooding his body with warmth. ‘I love you,’ he’d whisper, toying with your fingertips.
~
A click shatters your stupor; hundreds of pinpricks riddling your limbs. Your foot misses the running belt, stomping on the thin deck lining the sides of the machine. The sole of your shoe catches onto the tiny divot between the components, creasing the rubber.
Balance faltering, your palms scrape against the surface of the treadmill’s console, narrowly evading a tumble. Scrambling to release your sneaker, you stretch a leg to the floor – anchoring half of your body, preparing to yank the trapped foot.
With the belt still circling, it makes it near impossible to free yourself. Groaning frustratedly, you reach over, slamming the bright red ‘STOP’ button with a balled fist.
“I need to stop envisioning these scenarios before I twist my ankle!” Scolding yourself, clasping onto the handlebars, eyes downcast.
You just wish this ordeal would end, never wanting to be in a gym again.
If Jack wants you to exercise so bad, he can buy as much equipment he wants. Creating a personal gym would come with so many perks!
Like being able to gawk at Jack in the privacy of your home.
Goodness knows it’ll be cheaper in the long run – these memberships pile up even with his military discount.
Jack’s aware of the way your eyes linger on his biceps whenever they flex - it’s why he’s been on the pull-up bar for the entire duration of your session. All the while grunting much louder than needed; even detaching his prosthetic to heave himself higher.
Is he meant to be using the leg-press today? Yes, but Jack isn’t gonna miss seeing his pretty girl openly gawking at his figure for the world.
‘Leg day can wait; besides, I only have one.’ He muses.
He’s also aware of your lack of concentration, silently observing your unsteady gait and glossy eyes – often spacing out while staring in his direction, lips slightly parted.
You’re exactly where he wants you.
Hopping off the bar, Jack tips onto a railing on the wall, stabilising himself just enough to grab the bottom half of his leg. Slipping it on swiftly, dashing to your side once it’s secured.
“Whoo! I think we deserve a break, don’t you?” He huffs, leaning all his weight onto his forearm, causing the plastic of the control panel to creak.
“Thank God.” You utter under your breath.
“Hah, you look positively spent, buttercup.” Jack pulls the bottom of his singlet to his face, wiping the excess sweat, exposing his abdomen.
You stifle a groan at the action, eyes tipping upwards to the ceiling.
Lord have mercy.
“You are so getting it when we get home.”
The man only giggles, leaving his shirt half-off on his chest – looking like the pinnacle of mischief. “Holdin’ you to it, hon.”
It has come to my attention that some people think it's annoying to leave long comments?? Let me be the first to say—LEAVE LONG COMMENTS ON FICS!! GIVE YOUR RANDOM THOUGHTS AND ANALYSIS AND A LINE BY LINE BREAKDOWN AUTHORS LOOOOVE THAT SHIT and it encourages us to write more pls never question commenting
You can't help but fall victim for Jack Abbot's charms. The only problem? He can't seem to let his walls down.
A/N: I'm honestly just going through my drafts and finding the best pieces to post since my creativity has been at an all time low - but if you find anything you want me to expand on, please say so!
Warnings: Reader's gender is not specified, Jack is kind of a meanie - I wanted to try his more stressed side rather than his flirty one, this is literally just me waxing poetic about his eyes, LOTS of yearning
WC: 700 words
Falling in love with Jack Abbot was almost expected.
What’s not to like?
He was- is a great man.
Jack’s an ex-Army amputee veteran, SWAT moonlighter, and the night shift attending at PTMC – a mouthful for sure, but impressive, nonetheless.
And despite being all those things, despite having all these credible titles, he’s kind – even when most wouldn’t be.
One of the kindest people you’ll ever meet.
Abbot went out of his way to ensure a patient is comfortable, satisfied with their care, and most of all – healthy.
Healthy falls into multiple categories: mentally, physically, spiritually.
He makes it his life mission to tick all those boxes before any patient sets foot outside of the E.D.
When you first met Jack, you found him intimidating.
A lot of people do. You weren’t special for thinking so.
He was all intense stares, rapid-fire questions constructed to rack your brain, and signing you onto the Pitt’s challenging cases.
You thought he’d be the death of you.
The reason you’d quit emergency medicine.
But after you witnessed how he treated a young patient – maybe four or five years old – reassuring them that they’d be perfectly fine, softening his rugged voice to the best of his abilities, rubbing slow circles on their back, focusing on the blunt ridges of their spine, in a soothing motion.
He whispered, ‘Yes, this surgery will be scary - but not undergoing it will be even scarier. And we don’t want that, do we? I'm sure your siblings would miss playing with you.’
The kid hugged Jack tight, wrinkling his shirt in the process (not that he minded one bit), thanking him profusely, eyes glassy.
That’s when it clicked.
It was all a front.
A test.
To see how much you could bend before you break.
Because if he breaks you, you aren’t fit for this department.
Working side-by-side Jack came easily after that understanding.
Suddenly, the intense aura he lugged around didn’t feel so suffocating.
His never-ending supply of questions didn’t deter you like they used to; no longer interpreting them as an administration of doubt, but instead, a vessel to assert your opinion.
You developed a sixth sense for whenever Jack Abbot found something you did pleasing.
It was all in the eyes.
His eyes.
His gorgeous, hazel eyes.
They were the perfect balance of green, brown, and gold.
A rarity; one of a kind, encompassing Jack entirely.
You couldn’t think of a pair that would suit him more. It’s as if his body knew it had to be just as beautiful as his personality.
The lights in the E.D. didn’t do them any justice, muddling them down to dark orbs with an unidentifiable colour. The untrained eye would believe they were a deep brown, or a soft grey - depending on the angle.
But you knew.
It’s not that the harsh illumination of the Pitt did anyone justice, but Jack continues to look like a lead in a 2000’s rom-com.
But then again, you’d find Jack Abbot delectable even if he were covered in human shi-
“Did you catch that?”
A snap echoes around the consultation room, effectively seizing you from your daydreams. Jack pins you with a deadpan expression, those hazel eyes of his narrowing at your lack of spatial awareness.
The brief connection between your eyes causes the space to feel a lot smaller.
You’re breathless. As if he used the Force, a single glare strangling you.
“S-sorry, what?”
The attending shakes his head, raking fingers through his silver curls, “You gotta be kidding me,” he grumbled. “That’s the third time today, Doctor. Can’t have you away with the fairies during an actual emergency, understood?”
Warmth blooms across your face, embarrassment following close behind, “Yes, sir.”
Jack stills.
As if that one word shattered his focus completely.
Because it did.
His eyelid twitches, gripping the scalpel in his hand tightly, knuckles turning white at the action.
You're just so willing to please. Staring up at him with glossy eyes - awaiting the next order, like a soldier to be bossed around.
“Don’t…” a huff escapes his lips, “don’t call me that. Abbot is fine.”
Nodding obediently, you respond, “Of course. Sorry.”
You could’ve sworn you heard him curse under his breath, the sound of medical appliances masking any trace of it.
i can't believe i went from not writing/posting any fics for over TWO MONTHS to pumping out two fics in one day, while working on another one as we speak...
After faking his death, Andrew finds himself on the run. His legs lead him to the elusive Dutton Ranch; where he puts his unorthodox skills to better use.
A/N: Found this in the depths of my drafts and decided to post it! It's a very niche au, but I remember when I was watching Yellowstone, the whole time I pictured it as the perfect place for my beloved Andrew Cody <3 This is just the beginning of a series of one-shots!
pairing: dutton lawyer!reader x cowboy!pope cody
Warnings: Crossover between Animal Kingdom and Yellowstone, inaccurate depictions of being a lawyer and cowboy (I really don't know what I'm talking about, sorry!!), Jamie doesn’t exist because I say so
W/C: 400 words
Andrew delves himself into work, anything to keep his mind away from his so-called family. But then he meets you… the Dutton family lawyer.
You’re all sweet - white polo shirts under soft, pastel jerseys, and light navy jeans. There’s an AC blasting in the Dutton house, so you don’t mind layering up; fewer veering eyes to worry about.
But Andrew notices you - how shy you are around the boys, eyes downcast, and mumbling quietly. He’s never seen a woman of such high position so timid before - making you all the more endearing.
You followed Rip around the ranch one time, giving you a better idea as to why John loves this property so much - and why you need to protect it with all your heart.
Andrew nearly hits Jimmy’s hand while nailing a fence - the skinnier man cursing from fright. Andrew barely pays him any attention - too focused on the cute lawyer trailing behind Rip like a lost puppy. You’re wearing more appropriate clothes that day - weather-wise, anyway. A short graphic tee, paired with dark navy jeans. Andrew found you breathtaking.
You noticed him, too. I mean, who couldn’t? He’s a mysterious cowboy, with big arms, and a constant scowl - he’s perfect. His shirt tight against his midsection, hugging him in all the right places. And his techniques with the tools, God. Your mother would clutch her pearls at the way you look at him.
Rip glances back at you, the sounds of your steps suddenly disappeared. The man smirks at the dazed look on your face, nudging you with his shoulder, “His name is Andrew, in case you were wonderin’.” His tease took you out of your trance, eyeing him suspiciously, “I wasn’t!” “Right, right. And the sky is red.”
Andrew swears his heart nearly shatters at your departure, Rip whisking you away to another section of the ranch. Jimmy punches his arm, “You nearly chopped my finger off, asshole!” Andrew levels him with an icy glare, “Do that again, and a finger isn’t the only thing that’s getting chopped.”
Jack's been on a health kick ever since he turned fifty. So much so, he decides to drag you along with him to the gym.
A/N: Finally back!!!
Warnings: SELF-INDULGENT! Reader is female/fem presenting. A bit of backstory for this reader: she forged a doctor's note, her mum is a nurse practitioner, past insecurity (she's still insecure, but a little less), implication of reader being chubby, important-ish flashback, understandable hatred for cross-country. Self-deprecating jokes. Lots of leg jokes. Jack is 50, reader's age isn't specified, but around early thirties. Jack and reader live together, but aren't married (yet). Flirty Jack, what's new? Reader daydreams about Jack; kinda suggestive, but nothing you can't read in public. Mostly correct tenses, your girl's a genius! Half-assed ending because I have not been able to post anything lately and I'm having the jitters!
WC: 2.1k
You were never the athletic type, considered ‘weird’ in your younger years.
Cross-country was the worst.
Not only were you forced to unnecessarily run seven and a half miles, but must train daily to prevent muscle stitches and cramps. During the dead of winter, no less.
Convinced it was torture; you forged a doctor’s note just to escape.
And it would’ve earned you a four-week suspension, too.
The principle was furious, obviously well-read on your hatred for any physical activity.
You overheard his secretary murmur about a possible expulsion – just imagining it caused you to spiral.
Luckily, your mother claimed the clinic’s printer at was defective, the ink often exploding, deeming the documents illegible. So, to alleviate the situation, she chose to print the note at the department store instead.
Suspicion was evident on the principle’s face, but how was he supposed to argue that? He had no proof that your mother was fabricating the story – she was a law-abiding citizen of the community!
Not to mention, she was a nurse practitioner. Who works at said clinic.
You got off scot-free that day. For the most part.
Slamming the car door, causing the windows to rattle, “Grounded. For three months!” Your mother screeched, a mere inch away from cursing at your face.
“You’ve made a liar out of me!”
The lecture continued for a majority of the drive. You stared out the window, eyes welling, barely containing sobs.
Your mother noticed. She always did.
Her eyes softened at the sight of you picking the skin of your lip.
Stroking your cheek with her knuckles, she gently asks, “Why’d you do it, honey?”
“Because I look stupid.” You sniffled, rubbing mucus across the sleeve of your hoodie. “I get so gross after running. My hair’s a mess, my clothes soaked with sweat, and my breathing so laboured it’s the reason Antarctica's icecaps are melting!”
She snickers, “That’s to be expected, bub.”
“No, it’s not! You don’t get it, mum. All the other girls finish training looking like Victoria Secret models; running with their hair down, clothes completely dry, and without so much as a lick of sweat on them! It’s as if they remained still.”
“Then they aren’t doing it right,” your mother huffs, parking the car in your garage.
Waterworks were always effective when it came to your mother. She couldn’t stand the sight of her little girl (you’re still her baby, no matter what) weeping, especially if she raised her voice beforehand.
So effective that it lessened your grounding from three months to a week.
You never forged again.
However, you did plead your mother to write up a sick note whenever cross-country rolled around.
It surprises you that the memory returns nearly two decades later.
All because your fifty-year-old ‘boyfriend’ (he feels far too old for that term) proposes that you accompany him to the gym.
Jack’s been on a health kick ever since he hit the big five-zero, determined to remain agile for as long as possible. Protein shakes, vitamins, supplements, and nutritious meals are commodities in your household.
“This is all for you, sweetheart. If doing all of this will grant us more time together, every disgusting salad I eat will be worth every bite.”He says with a wink, grimacing while taking a large gulp of his green smoothie.
Jack never said he enjoyed eating healthily.
But hitting the gym regularly? That he can do.
He usually follows a PPL routine: Push, Pull, Legs (or in his case, just Leg), Mondays are for cardio, and Fridays focus on full body (somewhat, anyway).
He spends hours on the power rack, lifting almost double your weight – and it shows. You can see it when he crosses his arms; shirt straining at the motion, and you swear you can hear threads snapping.
Or when he kneels to pick something up, his left calf bulging due to the amount of muscle. To be honest, it scares you sometimes. It looks as if it could pop under the slightest pressure.
And don’t get started on his torso. You relish at the thought of it.
So, while you don’t participate in rigorous exercises like Jack, you can appreciate the effort he puts in to look delectable while keeping his body in good shape.
That is, until today.
“Although… you gotta suffer with me, buttercup. It’s only fair. In sickness and in health, right?”
“Hold on! First, we aren’t married-”
“Yet.”
“-and second, you choose to do this! So, in return, I should get the choice to opt out of it.”
The older man shakes his head, “That’s not how this works, sweetheart.”
Placing his smoothie on the marble countertop, he drops his hands onto either side of your hips, “Just think about it! You get to ogle me, and I get to ogle you. The both of us hot and heaving, getting some exercise in. It’s a win-win situation,” Jack moves his thumbs back and forth, massaging the plump skin of your waist.
Your eyes dart to the cupboard behind Jack’s head, pondering his offer. On one hand, you’d be delighted to watch the magic happen in front of you, rather than just witnessing the aftermath.
On the other... the same emotions you felt all those years ago come rushing back. Feeling inadequate for not being as fit as your peers, anxiety coursing through your veins when putting on sports gear - the curvier sections of your body suddenly exposed – looking like a soggy meatball after every P.E. class.
But this is Jack we’re talking about.
Your Jack.
The same man who dreaded revealing his amputation when you first met; worried it would scare you, worried it would show how damaged he is, worried you’d leave him for someone complete.
Always so critical of himself, while adulating every detail of your existence – each tucked away in the depths of his heart, cemented there, perpetually storing new information.
Flitting your gaze to meet his, you cave.
Sighing, you tug at his silver curls, "Fine. But if you find yourself thinking I look like an obese swine while working out, it’s your fault.”
Jack’s breath hitches at the pull, “Buttercup, if I ever think like that I want you to smack me into next Tuesday, you hear?” He arches a brow, urging you to comply.
“Oh, I’d do far worse than that, hon.” You retort, mockingly patting his chest.
He titters, pressing a delicate kiss to your temple, “Good.”
Upon entering the ginormous gymnasium, the little confidence you had dissipates.
Brawny men and women surround the space, performing various activities that make you shrink inside.
You barely know how any of the machines function; resembling torture devices from the Renaissance period, or death-traps designed by Jigsaw himself.
“Stay with me now.” A snap echoes through your ears, Jack eyeing you with a concerned expression.
He slots his fingers between your shoulder blades, “This doesn’t have to be a whole thing, okay? If you just wanna jog on a treadmill today, that’s totally fine. I don’t expect you to throw yourself into the deep end.”
Jack’s got that love-sick smile on his face, the kind that conveys more than words ever could.
‘I’m proud of you for trying.’
‘You being here is enough.’
‘Thank you for entertaining my silly ideas.’
The calming effect is instantaneous; better than any herbal tea or white noise you’ve tried.
Suddenly, the task didn’t seem so daunting.
Despite Jack’s encouragement, it resumes to feel like a humiliation ritual.
Truly.
You’re currently running (if you could even call it that) on a treadmill, per his advice, feeling like an absolute buffoon.
Feet ablaze, heels of your shoe gnawing at your ankles, socks sopping thanks to heavy perspiration. Breathing is agony; like your lungs are the size of twisty balloons, hardly expanding from the harsh intake of oxygen. With every step, you anticipate a burst.
What an experience, am I right?
You can’t recall the last time you were this drained - you’d rather cosy up with a book or binge twenty-season TV shows as a pastime.
But most humiliating of all, Jack’s putting the other gym-goers to shame. He’s executing his routine with extreme precision, with very few intervals between sets.
There’s a sheen of moisture coating his physique, casting a youthful glow.
If the treadmill wasn’t already rendering you breathless, you’re sure just the sight of Jack would leave you winded.
A trail of dampness falls down his chest and back. His navy-blue singlet is an entirely different shade – in fact, if you had no idea what colour it was originally, you’d think it’s black.
God, the things you’d do to swipe back his ash-grey hair. It’s sticking to Jack’s forehead, and he makes no move to fix it.
Thoroughly ‘in the zone,’ as he’d say.
~
Shifting your attention from your quaking legs, you will yourself to picture more pleasurable situations.
Particularly about Jack.
Maybe if you’re lucky, he’d allow you to pat him down later. Dabbing a towel along his form, removing any leftover residue or grime. Then, you’d give him a massage to relieve his aching muscles – focusing on Jack’s nub.
Just the way he likes.
Soft gasps would escape his lips, eyelids falling shut, the back of his head melting into the mattress. When you hit a spot that’s too tender, he’d grab your wrist in a frenzy – halting your actions. He’d practically beg, ‘Don’t stop. Just... be gentle.’
Better yet, washing his hair in the bathtub. You’d lather it up with his favourite shampoo (your vanilla shampoo), and knead into his temples. He’d be humming and praising you the whole time; rambling sleepily about how he ‘needed this.’
At the peak of relaxation, Jack would lean his head back - situating himself on your kneecaps - and he’d ask for a kiss, all sweet-like. Yearning apparent in his eyes, a desire for his buttercup to know just how much he loves her.
And who are you to deny him?
Hunching your back, you’d let your lips meet his. Jack would grin into the kiss, the velvety exchange flooding his body with warmth. ‘I love you,’ he’d whisper, toying with your fingertips.
~
A click shatters your stupor; hundreds of pinpricks riddling your limbs. Your foot misses the running belt, stomping on the thin deck lining the sides of the machine. The sole of your shoe catches onto the tiny divot between the components, creasing the rubber.
Balance faltering, your palms scrape against the surface of the treadmill’s console, narrowly evading a tumble. Scrambling to release your sneaker, you stretch a leg to the floor – anchoring half of your body, preparing to yank the trapped foot.
With the belt still circling, it makes it near impossible to free yourself. Groaning frustratedly, you reach over, slamming the bright red ‘STOP’ button with a balled fist.
“I need to stop envisioning these scenarios before I twist my ankle!” Scolding yourself, clasping onto the handlebars, eyes downcast.
You just wish this ordeal would end, never wanting to be in a gym again.
If Jack wants you to exercise so bad, he can buy as much equipment he wants. Creating a personal gym would come with so many perks!
Like being able to gawk at Jack in the privacy of your home.
Goodness knows it’ll be cheaper in the long run – these memberships pile up even with his military discount.
Jack’s aware of the way your eyes linger on his biceps whenever they flex - it’s why he’s been on the pull-up bar for the entire duration of your session. All the while grunting much louder than needed; even detaching his prosthetic to heave himself higher.
Is he meant to be using the leg-press today? Yes, but Jack isn’t gonna miss seeing his pretty girl openly gawking at his figure for the world.
‘Leg day can wait; besides, I only have one.’ He muses.
He’s also aware of your lack of concentration, silently observing your unsteady gait and glossy eyes – often spacing out while staring in his direction, lips slightly parted.
You’re exactly where he wants you.
Hopping off the bar, Jack tips onto a railing on the wall, stabilising himself just enough to grab the bottom half of his leg. Slipping it on swiftly, dashing to your side once it’s secured.
“Whoo! I think we deserve a break, don’t you?” He huffs, leaning all his weight onto his forearm, causing the plastic of the control panel to creak.
“Thank God.” You utter under your breath.
“Hah, you look positively spent, buttercup.” Jack pulls the bottom of his singlet to his face, wiping the excess sweat, exposing his abdomen.
You stifle a groan at the action, eyes tipping upwards to the ceiling.
Lord have mercy.
“You are so getting it when we get home.”
The man only giggles, leaving his shirt half-off on his chest – looking like the pinnacle of mischief. “Holdin’ you to it, hon.”
