Standard Precautions | Jack Abbot Smut 18++++!
SUMMARY:
You’re the twenty-two-year-old firebrand who’s too good at your job for Abbott’s peace of mind, always ready with a sharp retort that leaves him both irritated and inexplicably drawn to you. He calls you "Kid" like a dismissal, but the way he says it is starting to feel less like an insult and more like a challenge. On the graveyard shift, where the air is thick with caffeine and adrenaline, that constant friction is finally hitting a breaking point... Shifting from snippy office politics into a messy, heated tension that neither of you is quite ready to admit you crave.
WARNINGS: Big age gap. Daddy kink. Oral, m!rec. Language, banter, tension, ANGST, SMUT!! f!reader. Slight height difference mentioned. Size difference in general... Exhibitionism, slightly public smex. Orgasm denial/control. He's a tit guy. PinV smex, fingering f!rec, Biting, hair pulling, degradation and praise. Unprotected smex, please wrap it before you tap it, guys. Lots of good girl. Validation-seeking reader. Scratching, Pet names, because I don't use y/n. Breast play. Spitting. Impact play. Cervix-kissing. A lil unserious. Medical jargon, Incorrect usage of medical terms cuz I'm not a doctor. PLEASE lmk if I missed anything. MDNI!!!!!!!!!
Not really true to character Jack, he's a dick in this.
A/N: This will be written from first-person POV, just because it's easier for me that way! AGAIN MDNI 18++!!! NO PLOT fr... Also, not proofread, lmk if there are any mistakes. Feel free to leave requests through comments because my asks aren't working properly! And know I love love love LOVE reading comments!
The overhead fluorescents in the Pitt always seem to hum a little louder at 7:00 PM, a sterile, buzzing reminder that I’m signed over to the chaos for the next twelve hours. I smoothed the front of my scrubs, adjusted my stethoscope, and pasted on my best "I’m here to save lives and make friends" smile.
I really do try. I’m the one who brings the good doughnuts. I’m the one who remembers everyone's kids' birthdays. Most of the staff treats me like a favourite younger sister, but then there’s him.
Dr. Abbott was already hovering over a chart at the central station, looking like he’d been carved out of granite and spite. He’s in his late forties, has the kind of salt-and-pepper hair that belongs on a whiskey billboard, and a permanent crease between his brows that seems to deepen whenever I breathe in his general direction.
"Evening, Dr. Abbott!" I chirped, sliding into the station beside him to check my assignment. I made sure my movements were precise, my posture perfect. I didn't just want to be a good nurse; I wanted to be the best one he’d ever seen. I needed him to see that I was indispensable.
"You're late," he said, not even looking up. His voice was that low, gravelly rasp that usually commanded a room without effort.
"Actually, I’m four minutes early," I replied, my voice sweet but with that sharp, intelligent edge I couldn't quite tuck away. "Clock-in was nineteen-hundred. It’s eighteen-fifty-six."
He finally looked at me, his dark eyes tracking the movement of my pen as I clicked it. There was no warmth there, just that familiar, irritating scrutiny. "Don't be a pedant, Kid. It’s a bad look on someone who hasn't even seen a full decade of clinicals yet."
The "Kid" bit stung, as it always did, but I didn't let the smile slip. I just tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and leaned in a fraction, catching the scent of his soap and black coffee.
"I’ll keep that in mind while I’m doing the intake on the GSW coming into Bay Four," I said, catching the radio chatter before he did. I gave him a quick, professional nod. "Unless you’d prefer to do the paperwork yourself?"
I didn't wait for the retort I knew was coming. I turned on my heel, feeling his gaze heavy on my back. I hated that he got under my skin. I hated even more that, even though I couldn't stand his arrogance, my heart was thudding against my ribs with a desperate, pathetic need to turn back around and hear him say I’d done something right.
The adrenaline of the GSW intake carried me through the next two hours, a whirlwind of trauma shears, blood-soaked gauze, and the rhythmic, frantic beep of a cardiac monitor. I was in my element. I didn't miss a beat, anticipating the attending’s needs before he even asked, my movements a practiced dance of clinical perfection. I made sure Abbott saw it, too. Every time he passed Bay Four, I was the picture of composed efficiency, my charting flawless and my bedside manner impeccable.
By 10:00 PM, the initial rush had tapered off into the simmering, low-grade tension that defined the night shift. I was restocking the suture kits at the central station, humming a Top 40 hit under my breath—anything to keep the vibe upbeat—when the heavy thud of a chart hitting the desk made me jump.
"You missed a signature on the consent form for the chest tube in Four, Kid."
I didn't even have to look up to know it was him. That gravelly tone acted like a physical weight on my shoulders. I turned, maintaining my sunny-but-professional mask, even as my internal temperature spiked.
"I didn't miss it, Dr. Abbott," I said, my voice light but firm. I reached over, flipping the page with a manicured nail to reveal the electronic timestamp. "The patient’s power of attorney was remote. I verified it via the secure portal at twenty-one-fifteen. It’s right there. Below the digital line."
Abbott leaned in, his shoulder nearly brushing mine. He didn't smell like the hospital; he smelled like that sharp, clean soap and the dark, bitter tang of the espresso he drank hours ago. He squinted at the screen, his jaw set. For a second, we were so close I could see the individual grey hairs in his stubble.
"Redundant," he grunted, finally straightening up. He didn't apologize. He didn't even look at me. "Next time, print a hard copy. I don't want to be digging through portals when the M&M committee comes knocking."
"Of course," I replied, the word 'redundant' echoing in my head like a slur. "Anything else I can optimize for you while I'm at it?"
He paused, his dark eyes flicking to mine. There was a beat of silence where the air felt uncomfortably thin. "Just keep your head down and keep moving. We’ve got a multi-car pileup coming in from the I-95. Ten minutes out. I need you on triage."
"You got it, Doc," I chirped, though the 'Doc' felt a little more like a jab than usual.
The pileup was a nightmare. The Pitt turned into a war zone of screaming sirens and the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline. I was everywhere at once—triaging the walking wounded, directing the residents, and keeping the families from spiraling into hysterics. I saw Abbott in the thick of it, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, veins prominent in his forearms as he worked. He was a force of nature, cold and calculating, moving from one crisis to the next without a flicker of doubt.
I found myself watching him more than I should have. It wasn't attraction—I told myself it was professional observation. I watched the way he took command, the way people scrambled to meet his standards. I wanted that power. I wanted that level of respect.
Around 1:00 AM, there was a momentary lull. I was leaning against the wall near the ambulance bay, taking a thirty-second breather and sipping on a lukewarm water bottle. My feet ached, and my scrub top had a suspicious smear of iodine on the hem, but I still felt... on.
Abbott walked out of a trauma room, stripping off his latex gloves with a sharp snap. He looked exhausted, the lines around his mouth deeper, but his energy was still vibrating at a frequency that made my teeth ache. He headed for the vending machine, but stopped when he saw me.
"Why are you standing around, Kid? Triage is clear, but the sutures in Three aren't going to do themselves."
I took a slow sip of water, refusing to let him see me huff. "I'm sorry, Dr. Abbott. I’m taking a one-minute hydration break to ensure I don't faint on a patient. Professionalism, remember?"
He let out a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a dark chuckle. He stepped into my space, his presence looming. He was significantly taller, enough that I had to tilt my head back, exposing the line of my throat.
"You're high-strung," he observed, his voice dropping an octave, becoming that private, scratchy rumble that felt far too intimate for a hallway. "You’re trying so hard to be the 'gold star' nurse that you’re going to burn out before the sun comes up."
"I don't burn out," I snapped, my eyes flashing. I hated that he could see through the upbeat facade. "I’m exactly where I need to be. And I'm doing a damn good job."
He didn't move. He just stared down at me, his gaze intense and unreadable. "We'll see how 'good' you are when the fatigue actually hits. Go do the sutures in Three. And don't get blood on the floor; I just saw the janitor mop it."
He walked away without waiting for a response, leaving me standing there, gripping my water bottle so hard the plastic crinkled. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw something at the back of his salt-and-pepper head. But more than anything, I wanted to go into Room Three and give the most beautiful, surgical-grade stitches he’d ever seen, just so he’d have no choice but to admit I was perfect.
Room Three was a nightmare of jagged lacerations and a patient who wouldn't stop squirming, but I tackled it with a vengeance. I didn't just suture; I embroidered. By the time I finished, the closure looked like it belonged in a textbook. I was tired, my lower back was screaming, and the upbeat persona was starting to fray at the edges, leaving behind something much more jagged.
I emerged from the room at 2:30 AM, my neck stiff. I caught sight of Abbott at the nurse’s station, his head tilted back as he dropped some sterile artificial tears into his eyes. He looked human for a split second, vulnerable even, until he sensed me approaching and the iron mask slammed back into place.
"Sutures in Three are done," I stated, my voice losing its chirpy lilt and replacing it with a flat, exhausted snap. "Perfectly. Anything else, or should I go find a cat to rescue from a tree to satisfy your hero complex?"
He didn't even blink at the sass. He just set the eye drops down and leveled me with a look that felt like a physical weight. "Check the labs on the febrile infant in Six. Then go help the intern in Nine. He’s struggling with a catheter and he looks like he’s about to cry. Try to be 'upbeat' for him, will you? Your current disposition is a bit... abrasive."
"Abrasive?" I scoffed, stepping closer until I was firmly in his personal space, my hands on my hips. I was a quite a bit lower than height than him, and he loomed over me like a mountain of pure, unadulterated judgment. "I’ve been on my feet for nearly eight hours, Dr. Abbott. I’ve triaged a pileup, stitched a restless drunk, and haven't seen a carb since yesterday afternoon. If I’m abrasive, it’s because I’m rubbing up against your impossible standards."
"My standards aren't the problem, Kid. It’s your ego," he countered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He leaned forward, his chest inches from mine, and the scent of that clean soap hit me again, mixing with the metallic tang of the hospital. "You’re so busy trying to prove you’re the smartest person in here that you’re forgetting to breathe. It makes you sloppy."
"Sloppy?" I practically hissed the word. My exhaustion was manifesting as a hot, prickly heat behind my eyes. "Point to one thing I’ve done tonight that was sloppy. One. Single. Thing."
He didn't move. He just stared down at me, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second, so fast I almost thought I imagined it, before locking back onto my eyes. "The way you’re talking to your attending in the middle of a shift. That’s sloppy. It’s unprofessional."
"You started it," I snapped, the maturity of a five-year-old bleeding through my exhaustion. "You’ve been poking at me since nineteen-hundred. You call me 'Kid' like I’m some stray you found in the parking lot. I’m a licensed professional, and I’m damn good at what I do."
"Then act like it," he said, his voice dropping even lower, vibrating in the small space between us. "Go to Nine. Fix the intern’s mess. And for God’s sake, get some caffeine. You’re getting twitchy."
I wanted to bite him. I actually felt the urge to sink my teeth into his neck just to see if he’d react. Instead, I spun around, my sneakers squeaking aggressively on the linoleum. "I’m going. But I’m taking the good coffee from the doctor’s lounge, and I’m not asking for permission."
"Take the whole pot if it keeps you from snapping at the patients," he called after me, though I could hear the ghost of a smirk in his voice.
The intern in Nine was, indeed, a disaster. He was sweating through his white coat, hands shaking as he fumbled with the kit. I stepped in, my movements cold and clinical. I didn't offer a pep talk. I just took the lead, guided him through it with a sharp, no-nonsense tone, and finished the procedure in under two minutes.
"Thanks, Kid," the intern breathed, wiping his forehead. "I don't know how you stay so sharp this late."
"Pure spite," I muttered, heading for the lounge.
The lounge was a tomb of stale air and the low, industrial hum of the refrigerator. I didn't even turn on the main lights, letting the dim glow from the vending machine guide me to the coffee pot. My hands were steady, because they had to be, but the rest of me felt like it was vibrating apart. I pressed my forehead against the cool, stainless steel of the fridge, closing my eyes and just breathing for a sixty-second count.
I wasn't just tired; I was raw. Every time Abbott called me "Kid," it felt like he was stripping away the years of schooling, the double shifts, and the sheer grit it took to stand my ground in the Pitt. I wanted his respect so badly it tasted like copper in my mouth, but the more I reached for it, the more he seemed to delight in moving the goalposts.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The pager on my hip felt like an electric shock. I glanced at the small screen: Bay Two. Pediatric.
Spite was immediately replaced by adrenaline. I shoved the coffee cup, full and calling me, into the sink and ran.
Bay Two was already a swarm of activity. A six-year-old boy, pale as a sheet and struggling for every breath, was being moved onto the bed. Abbott was already there, his presence like a dark thundercloud over the small patient. He looked different in a pediatric code, more intense, his focus narrowed down to a terrifyingly sharp point.
"Intubating," Abbott barked, his hand out.
I slid into my place at his side, the perfect second-in-command. I had the tray ready before he could even ask. I was moving with a fluid, silent grace, anticipating the meds, the suction, the monitors. I felt the weight of his expectations, and I met them with every fiber of my being.
"Vitals are dropping, Dr. Abbott," I said, my voice low but perfectly clear over the sound of the nebulizer. "Lungs are sounding tighter on the left. Should we consider—"
"I know what the lungs sound like, Kid," he snapped, his eyes never leaving the boy’s throat. "Bag him. Now."
I did as I was told, the rhythmic squeeze of the bag becoming my entire world. But my brain was moving at a hundred miles an hour. I’d seen this kid’s mother on the way in. "He has a history of reactive airway, but the mother mentioned a peanut allergy in the waiting room. If this is anaphylaxis and not just asthma—"
"I said bag him!" Abbott roared, the sound echoing off the sterile walls. The residents in the room froze. "I don't need a nurse playing diagnostic detective when I have a blocked airway. I need you to follow the protocol I give you. Nothing else."
"I am following protocol," I said, my voice trembling only slightly. "I’m just trying to make sure we aren't missing—"
Abbott straightened up for a split second, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fury. "You’re being a distraction. You’re overstepping because you think your 'perfection' makes you an equal. It doesn't."
He turned back to the patient, his voice dropping to a deadly, quiet hiss. "Get out of my bay. Get someone in here who knows how to listen and keep their mouth shut."
The silence that followed was worse than the shouting. I looked around the room, at the intern who wouldn't meet my eyes, at the respiratory tech who looked away. My face felt like it was on fire. I had done everything right. I had been perfect. And he was throwing me out like I was a first-day volunteer.
"Dr. Abbott, I—"
"I told you to leave," he growled, not even looking at me. "Now."
I backed away, my heart hammering a frantic, painful rhythm against my ribs. I didn't stop until I was out in the hallway, the double doors swinging shut with a heavy thud. The hallway was empty, the blue-white light reflecting off the linoleum in a way that made me feel dizzy.
The "Kid" mask didn't just fray this time. It shattered. I wasn't snippy anymore. I wasn't smart. I was just a twenty-two-year-old girl standing in a hallway, realizing that no matter how hard I worked, no matter how many birthdays I remembered or how many perfect stitches I threw, I would never be enough for him.
The rejection didn't just sting; it felt like a physical ache in my chest, a deep, hollow longing for the approval he had just weaponised against me. I found myself walking toward the supply closet, the only place where the cameras couldn't see my eyes start to well up. I needed to hide. I needed to breathe. And most of all, I needed to figure out why his disappointment felt like the end of the world.
The supply closet smelled of sterile latex and industrial lemon, a cramped, windowless sanctuary where the hum of the hospital felt miles away. I pulled the door shut and didn't bother turning on the light. I just sank onto a stack of boxed linens, my knees hitting my chest, and let out a breath that came out more like a sob than I cared to admit.
I wasn't a crier. I was the girl who stayed cool when a patient’s BP hit the floor. I was the one who could joke about the grossest trauma cases over a ham sandwich. But the way he’d looked at me, like I was a nuisance, like I was nothing, had sliced right through my professional skin.
The door creaked open.
I didn't move. I didn't want to be seen, but the silhouette blocking the light from the hallway was unmistakable. Broad shoulders, the scent of espresso and that maddeningly clean soap. He didn't say anything at first. He just stepped in and let the door click shut, plunging us into the heavy, pressurized dark.
"The kid is stable," he said, his voice a low vibration in the small space. "It was the airway. You were right about the allergy, but the obstruction had to be handled first. I gave the epi once you left."
"Great," I choked out, my voice thick. "So you’re a hero and I’m still the incompetent nurse who gets kicked out of trauma bays. Glad we cleared that up."
"I never said you were incompetent."
"You treated me like I was!" I stood up abruptly, the movement fueled by a sudden, jagged burst of adrenaline. I didn't care that he was twice my size. I didn't care about the hierarchy anymore. I stepped into his space, my finger trembling as I pointed it at his chest. "I do everything for you. I’m four minutes early every single shift. I memorize your preferred surgical tray layouts. I fix the interns' mistakes before they even make them so your unit runs like a machine. I am perfect, Dr. Abbott. I am literally perfect for you!"
He stayed perfectly still, but I could feel the heat radiating off him. "And you think I don't notice that?"
"If you notice it, then why don't you like me?" My voice broke, the question coming out small and desperate, the things I’d spent years burying finally clawing their way to the surface. "Why won't you just give me one win? Everyone else likes me. Everyone else thinks I’m the best thing to happen to this shift. But you... You look at me like I’m a mistake you’re waiting to correct. What do I have to do to make you happy? Give me a list, because I’m tired of guessing."
I was breathing hard, my heart hammering against my ribs so loudly I thought he must be able to hear it. The darkness made everything feel heightened: the proximity of his body, the way he was staring down at me with an intensity that felt like it was stripping me bare.
"You want to know why I don't 'like' you, Kid?" He stepped forward, forcing me back against the metal shelving. A box of gauze fell over, but neither of us moved. He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his breath warm against my lips. "It’s because you’re a distraction. Because every time you walk into a room with that 'upbeat' smile and those sharp little retorts, I can’t focus on the charts. I’m too busy wondering how someone so young and so frustratingly smart managed to get so far under my skin."
His hand came up, not to touch me, but to grip the shelf beside my head, pinning me in. "You’re a perfectionist because you’re starving for approval. You want me to tell you you’re a good girl? That you’ve done a good job?"
The way he said good girl made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with the way my knees suddenly felt like water.
"Yes," I whispered, the defiance draining out of me, replaced by a terrifying, needy vulnerability. "Please."
"That’s your problem," he growled, his voice dropping to a rasp. "You’re looking for a gold star, and I’m trying not to put my hands on you in the middle of a Level One trauma centre. You want to be perfect? Fine. But stop pretending this is about the work."
I leaned my head back against the cold metal shelf, my eyes searching his in the dark. Now that the wall had cracked, I couldn't stop the leak. I felt small, and for once, I didn't want to fight it.
"Then say it," I whined, the sound embarrassing even to my own ears, but I was too far gone to care. I reached out, my fingers curling into the fabric of his scrub top, bunching the black material between my hands. "You’re so mean to me. All night. Every night. Just because I’m younger? Just because you can?"
"I'm not mean to you, Kid," he muttered, though the word 'Kid' didn't sound like a dismissal anymore. It sounded like a tether he was trying, and failing, not to snap.
"Stop calling me that," I huffed. I was a perfectionist, a professional, the girl who had it all together, but right now I felt like a bratty subordinate who just wanted to be seen. "You say it like I’m a child. You say it to remind everyone I don't belong here with you. Why can't you just call me by my name? Why can't you just tell me I'm... that I'm doing it right?"
Abbott let out a sharp, jagged breath, his grip on the shelf tightening until his knuckles went white. He leaned in closer, his chest brushing against mine, his height making me feel utterly eclipsed.
"I call you that because if I don't, I'll forget," he rasped, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low frequency that made my thighs ache. "I call you that to remind myself that there’s twenty-plus years between us. To remind myself that I’m your attending and you’re the twenty-two-year-old nurse who’s supposed to be following my lead, not making me want to lock the door and lose my mind."
He tilted his head, a dark, mocking glint in his eyes as he took in my desperate expression. "Is that what this is? All those donuts and the perfect charts? You’re just a little validation seeker, aren't you? You don’t want a promotion, you want a pat on the head from the man in charge."
I let out a shaky, frustrated breath, my face flushing hot. He was mocking me, peeling back my layers and laughing at the soft, needy center, and yet I found myself leaning into him.
"I just want to know I'm good," I whispered, my voice small and pathetic. "I worked so hard for you tonight. I did everything you asked. I just... I want to be good enough for you."
Abbott’s eyes darkened, his pupils dilating until the iris was nearly gone. The mocking smirk vanished, replaced by a look of raw, predatory hunger that made my heart stop.
"You really need a good girl from me?" he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue like a threat. He stepped even closer, his thigh sliding between mine, forcing me to tilt my hips back against the shelving. He looked down at me, his weathered hand finally moving, his thumb grazing my jawline with a touch that was surprisingly calloused and firm. "You’ve been driving me insane for months with that smart mouth and those perfect vitals. And you’re telling me all you wanted was for me to tell you you're doing a good job?"
I nodded frantically, my hands shaking where they gripped his shirt. I felt ridiculous, exposed, and utterly alive.
"You're gonna have to prove it to me." He mumbled, his head dipping slightly to hover his lips over mine.
couldn't even reply before his mouth was on mine, not soft, not asking, but a bruising, desperate claim that tasted like the coffee he’d been drinking all night. It was the crash of a Level One trauma, sudden and total. I let out a muffled whimper into the kiss, my fingers tightening in his scrubs as I tried to pull him closer, my body practically begging to be crushed under his weight.
He tasted like authority and heat. His tongue swept into my mouth, dominant and sure, and I met him with a frantic hunger I hadn't known I possessed. The friction of his stubble against my sensitive skin was a reminder of every year between us, every bit of experience he had that I was currently starving for.
"Still so eager," he growled against my lips, pulling back just an inch, though he didn't release the grip he now had on my waist. His large hands spanned my sides, his thumbs digging into the soft tissue just above my hips. "Is this what you wanted, Kid? To have your attending finally lose his temper?"
"I wanted you to look at me," I breathed, my chest heaving, the sterile scent of the closet making the heat of him feel even more illicit. "I wanted you to stop treating me like I was just... just another part of the equipment."
"You were never that," he muttered, his head dropping to the crook of my neck. He didn't kiss it—he bit, a sharp nip that made me gasp and arch my back, my breasts brushing against his chest. "I treated you like that because I couldn't look at you for more than five seconds without wanting to do exactly this. Without wanting to see how loud you’d be if I actually gave you what you’re begging for."
He shifted, his thigh pressing higher, firmer, right against the center of my heat through the thin fabric of our scrubs. The pressure was so perfect I almost lost my footing. I let out a shaky, high-pitched sound, my head falling back against the metal shelf with a dull thud.
"Please," I whined, my hands moving from his chest to his hair, pulling at the salt-and-pepper strands. "Please, Dr. Abbott."
"Dr. Abbott?" He chuckled, a dark, vibrating sound against my skin. He pulled back to look at me, his eyes hooded and dangerous. "You’re in a supply closet with your legs shaking, begging me to touch you, and you’re still trying to be the professional little nurse?"
He reached down, his hand finding the hem of my scrub top and sliding underneath, his palm hot and rough against my stomach. I shivered, my eyes fluttering shut.
"You want that praise so bad?" he whispered, his lips brushing my ear. "Then you're going to have to earn it. You’re going to be quiet, and you’re going to do exactly what I tell you. No talking back. No smart-ass retorts. Just mine. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I choked out, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. "Yes, I understand."
"Good girl," he rasped, and the words hit me like a physical blow, sending a wave of heat straight to my core.
I can't help but smile a little at the validation, I'm fucking giddy for it.
The look on my face was pathetic, a raw show of just how much power he had over me with two simple words. I felt giddy, my heart racing not from the adrenaline of a trauma code, but from the sheer weight of his attention. I was a perfectionist, a high-achiever, and I had just found the one thing I wanted to be perfect at more than nursing.
His hand slid higher under my scrub top, his palm rough and calloused as it brushed over the sensitive skin of my ribs. I shivered, my breath hitching when his thumb grazed the underside of my bra.
"Jack—" I started, my voice a breathy mess of a plea.
He stopped. His hand stilled against my skin, and he pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, his expression hardening into something stern and uncompromising. "What did you just call me?"
"I—Jack," I repeated, my brow furrowing in confusion. "I thought..."
"You thought wrong," he clipped out, his voice a low, authoritative rasp that made my stomach do a backflip. "I’m your attending, and we are in the middle of a shift in my hospital. You don't get to be on a first-name basis with me just because I have my hand under your shirt. Try again."
"I'm sorry," I whined, the sound small and needy. I reached up, my fingers brushing the salt-and-pepper hair at his temples. "I just... Abbott, please—"
Smack.
The sound of his palm connecting with my thigh was sharp and loud in the small closet, the sting of it blooming into a delicious, throbbing heat. I gasped, my back arching as I stared at him with wide, shocked eyes.
"That's Doctor Abbott to you, Kid," he growled, his gaze dropping to where he'd just swatted. "Every time you forget your place, you're going to get a reminder. Do you want another one, or are you going to show me how professional you can be?"
"No, Doctor Abbott," I whispered, the name feeling like a prayer on my tongue. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Better," he muttered, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
He didn't waste another second. He gripped my waist and hoisted me up, my sneakers dangling for a moment before he sat me back against the cold, stainless steel counter of the supply station. The chill of the metal through my thin scrubs made me shiver, but the heat of him pressing between my knees a second later more than made up for it.
He was so much bigger than me, wider, taller, his presence filling every inch of the cramped space. I felt tiny, tucked away in the shadows with a man who could ruin my career with a phone call but was currently choosing to ruin my composure instead.
"You've been a busy little bee tonight, haven't you?" he murmured, his hands moving to the drawstring of my scrub pants. He didn't look up, his focus entirely on the task of uncovering me. "Running around, making sure everyone is happy. Making sure everything is perfect."
He pulled the fabric down, exposing me to the cool air and his intense, clinical gaze. I felt a flush of anxiety hit me; anyone could walk by that door. A resident, an intern, a janitor. The risk made the moisture between my thighs feel like a flood.
"You're so small," he observed, his voice dropping into a register that was pure, unadulterated hunger. He reached out, his large hand spanning the width of my thigh, his fingers digging in. "And so ready for me. Is this what happens when I stop shouting at you for five minutes?"
"I just wanted you to notice," I whimpered, my hands finding his shoulders, my nails scratching lightly against the fabric of his scrubs. "I did it all for you."
"I noticed, baby", he said, his voice a dark purr. He leaned in, his face inches from my chest. He thought I was pretty; I knew it by the way his eyes lingered on the swell of my breasts through the fabric of my bra. He didn't hesitate, his hand catching the lace and pulling it down, exposing me.
He took one peak into his mouth, his tongue rough and hot, and I let out a cry that I had to stifle against his shoulder. He bit, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark, a claim.
"Stay quiet," he warned, his hand sliding down, his fingers finding my damp heat. He didn't tease; he drove two fingers inside me with a blunt, authoritative force that made my head snap back. "If someone hears you, I'll have to tell them you're just having a... private consultation. And we wouldn't want to lie to the staff, would we?"
"No, Doctor Abbott," I sobbed quietly, my hips stuttering against his hand. He was stretching me, his fingers thick and certain, mocking my lack of experience with every rhythmic thrust. "Please... I'll be good."
"You'll be whatever I tell you to be," he rasped, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at my core and grinding down with a pressure that had me seeing stars. "Now, look at me while I remind you who’s in charge of this goddamn hell hole."
I looked at him, my vision blurring at the edges from the sheer, overwhelming friction of his fingers inside me. His face was a mask of focused intensity, his jaw tight as he watched the way I fell apart under his hand. I was a mess, hair coming loose from my ponytail, scrubs bunched around my waist, sobbing out quietly, broken "yes, sir" every time his thumb put pressure on that aching spot.
"You like that, don't you?" he murmured, leaning in so his lips brushed against my wet cheek. "Being handled. Being told exactly what to do."
"I do," I whimpered, my nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks through the fabric of his scrubs. "Please, Doctor Abbott... I want to... I want to do something for you."
He paused, his fingers still buried deep inside me, his thumb stilled against my clit. He let out a low, rough exhale that sounded like a growl. "Is that right? You want to be useful, Kid?"
I nodded frantically, my heart hammering against my ribs. The need for his approval was a physical ache, a craving that was screaming louder than the pulse between my thighs. I wanted to show him I wasn't just some girl he had to manage; I wanted to be the best he'd ever had.
He withdrew his fingers with a slow, agonising slide that made me whimper in protest. He stepped back just enough to create space, his hands going to the waistband of his own scrubs. "Then get down. Show me that constant effort you're so proud of."
I didn't hesitate. I slid off the cold metal counter, my legs nearly giving out the moment my sneakers hit the linoleum. I sank to my knees between his feet, the height difference even more staggering now. From down here, he looked like a god, towering, broad, and utterly in control.
I reached out with trembling hands, my fingers fumbling with the drawstring of his pants. When I finally freed him, the sheer size of him made my breath hitch. He was thick and heavy, already straining with a need that mirrored my own. I looked up at him, my eyes wide and pleading, waiting for the command.
"Don't just look at it," he rasped, his hand coming down to rest heavily on the top of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. "Use that smart mouth for something other than talking back."
I leaned forward, my heart in my throat. I took him into my mouth, the heat and taste of him exciting me. I wanted to be perfect; I wanted to be meticulous. I used my tongue the way I used a scalpel, with precision and intent, swallowing as much of him as I could.
"God, Kid," he groaned, his hips giving a small, involuntary jerk. His grip on my hair tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to let me know he was holding on for dear life. "Look at you. So eager to please."
I looked up at him through my lashes, not stopping my work. I wanted to see the way his eyes blew out, the way his professional mask finally cracked. I reached up, my hands stroking the length of his thighs, feeling the hard muscle beneath the blue fabric.
He started to move his hips, a rhythmic, authoritative thrust that forced me to take more of him. He wasn't gentle; he was using me, his breath hitching as I felt his hand press firmer into my hair, guiding the pace.
"That's it," he hissed, his voice breaking. "Take it all. Be a good girl for me."
I redoubled my efforts, my throat aching but my mind buzzing with the thrill of his praise. I wanted to be the only thing he could think about, better than any chart, any patient, any trauma. I felt his hands move from my hair to my face, his thumbs catching the corners of my mouth as he pushed deeper.
"You're so fucking perfect," he growled, the words sounding like a confession. He pulled back just enough to look down at me, his face flushed and his eyes dark with a desperate, heavy heat. "But I don't want you to make me finish like this. Not when I’ve been thinking about getting inside you since nineteen-hundred."
He reached down, hauling me up by my armpits until I was standing, though my knees were still shaking. He spun me around, slamming my palms against the cold metal of the supply shelves.
"Hold on to the shelf, if you let go, I'll stop," he ordered, his voice a low, jagged warning. "And don't you dare make a sound."
The metal of the shelf was ice-cold against my palms, a stark contrast to the radiating heat of his body pressing into my back. I gripped the edge until my knuckles turned white, my heart thundering against my ribs as I felt him position himself. He was heavy, a solid wall of muscle and authority that pinned me against the supplies. He didn't use a condom—there was no time, and the raw, reckless energy between us didn't leave room for caution.
When he pushed into me, a slow, blunt intrusion that felt like it was claiming every inch of my internal space, a loud, jagged "Oh!" ripped from my throat. It wasn't a whisper; it was a genuine, surprised cry that echoed off the cramped walls.
Abbott let out a low, huffed laugh against the back of my neck, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat through me. "I thought I told you to be quiet, Kid," he murmured, his breath hot and damp against my skin. He didn't sound angry; there was a streak of dark amusement in his voice that made my stomach flip. "Are you trying to get us caught? You're failing your first clinical requirement."
"It's too much," I gasped, my head falling forward. "Jack, please—"
The moment the name left my lips, his hand flew from my waist to the back of my neck, his fingers tightening. "What did I say about the name?" he growled, though his tone was softened by a smirk I could feel against my shoulder. He didn't swat me this time; instead, he drove home, a deep, rhythmic thrust that hit my cervix with such precision I nearly blacked out.
My hands flew off the shelf, reaching back instinctively to grab at him, to find some purchase on his arms.
"Ah-ah," he warned, his voice a sharp, authoritative snap. He stopped moving entirely, holding himself deep inside me, his pulse thrumming against my walls. "Hands back on the shelf. I told you, if you let go, I stop. Do you want me to stop?"
"No," I whined, my voice high and desperate. I scrambled to find the metal edge again, my fingers trembling as I locked them around the shelf. "No, Doctor Abbott. Please don't stop. I'll be good, I promise."
"Show me," he commanded.
He started to move again, and this time, there was no mercy. It was a relentless, technical assault. He knew exactly where to hit, his thrusts powerful and deep, calculated to drive me to the edge without letting me fall over it. Every time I felt the tension building, that familiar, electric coil in my lower belly, he would slow down, dragging his length out until I was whimpering for him to come back.
"Not yet," he whispered, his teeth grazing the shell of my ear. "You don't get to finish until I decide you've earned it. You’re a perfectionist, remember? I want to see how long you can hold it together for me."
He reached around, his large hand finding my breast and squeezing with a possessive force that made me moan into the dark. His thumb and forefinger rolling my nipple until I was shaking, my legs feeling like they were made of water. I was scratching at the metal, my breath coming in short, hitching gasps.
"You're doing so well," he praised, the words low and gravelly, more intoxicating than any drug in the pharmacy. He spat on his palm, the sound wet and illicit in the silence, before reaching down to ground his hand against my clit while he continued to hammer into me from behind. "Look at you. My perfect little nurse, taking every inch of me while the whole hospital thinks she’s checking inventory."
The intensity was reaching a fever pitch. The size difference was so apparent now—the way he eclipsed me, the way his hands seemed to cover half my body. I was lost in the friction, the scent of him, and the agonizingly slow burn of a climax he wouldn't let me reach.
"Doctor Abbott," I sobbed, my focus entirely on the sensation of him filling me, stretching me. "Please, I can't... I'm going to--."
"You better fucking not," he rasped, his pace increasing, his breath becoming a series of jagged, heavy grunts.
He didn't just increase the pace; he changed the angle, his hips tilting to drive even deeper, hitting that sensitive spot with a rhythmic, clinical brutality that had me seeing spots. I was vibrating, my legs shaking so violently I had to lock my elbows just to stay upright. The coil in my gut was so tight it felt like it was going to snap, a white-hot pressure that made my brain go fuzzy.
"Jack, I'm—"
Smack.
The sound of his palm against my other thigh was even louder this time, a stinging, stinging heat that radiated through my entire lower half. I cried out, my fingers slipping from the metal for a fraction of a second before I gripped it again, terrified of him stopping.
"You’re a slow learner tonight, Kid," he growled, his voice thick with a dark, heavy lust. He didn't slow down, his body slamming into mine with a wet, rhythmic thud. "What did I say about that name? You want to get in trouble? You want me to pull out and leave you like this?"
"No! No, please," I sobbed, the desperation finally breaking through my professional filter. I was desperate for the release, desperate for him to keep claiming me, to keep telling me I was his. I was reaching for anything to keep him there, any word that would show him how much power he truly had over me. "I’m sorry... please, Daddy."
The word hung in the air, heavier and more illicit than anything we’d done so far. I froze, my face heating up with an agonizing, bone-deep embarrassment. I hadn't planned it; it had just slipped out, fueled by the age gap, the authority, and my own pathetic need to be handled by him. It was weird. It was wrong. Oh, God.
Abbott’s entire body went rigid. His hips stuttered, a jagged, uneven thrust that buried him to the hilt, and for a terrifying, wonderful second, I thought he was going to come right then. He let out a choked, guttural sound, a noise that sounded nothing like the composed Doctor Abbott.
The silence in the closet was deafening, save for our ragged breathing. He stayed buried inside me, his forehead dropping to the space between my shoulder blades. I could feel his heart hammering against my back like a trapped bird.
"What did you just say?" he rasped, his voice vibrating with a shock he couldn't quite hide.
"I—I’m sorry," I whispered, my eyes squeezed shut in shame, my knuckles white on the shelf. "I didn't mean to, I just—Doctor Abbott, I'm sorry, I'll be quiet—"
"Say it again."
I blinked, my breath hitching. "What?"
"I said, say it again," he commanded, his voice regaining its authoritative edge, but with a new, dangerous tremor underneath. He started to move again, but it was different now, slower, deeper, each thrust feeling like he was trying to touch my very soul. He reached around, his hand finding my jaw and forcing me to turn my head so he could look me in the eye. "You want to be a good girl? You want that gold star? Then say it. For me."
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. I looked into his dark, blown-out eyes and saw the raw hunger there, the way the word had stripped away his cynicism and left something primal behind.
"Please... Daddy," I breathed, the word feeling like a surrender.
He let out a low, shaky exhale, his eyes closing for a brief moment as if he were savoring the sound. Then, he snapped. The slow, deliberate movements were gone, replaced by a frenzied, desperate pace that had the shelves rattling behind us. He was no longer the composed attending; he was a man possessed, his large hands bruising my hips as he hauled me back against him, meeting every one of his thrusts with an intensity that had me screaming into the crook of my arm.
"God, you're going to be the death of me," he hissed, his teeth sinking into the meat of my shoulder. "You're so fucking perfect. My perfect, needy little girl."
The word was a match in a room full of gasoline. The moment it left my lips for the second time, Abbott’s restraint didn't just fray, it disintegrated. He wasn't the clinical, composed attending anymore; he was a man being driven to the brink by a girl half his age who knew exactly how to bleed him dry of his authority.
He began to hammer into me with a rhythmic, punishing intensity that had the metal shelves rattling, the boxes of sterile gauze and IV start kits vibrating behind my white-knuckled grip.
"That’s what this was all about, wasn't it?" he rasped, his voice a jagged, cruel whisper against my ear. "All that effort, all those perfect vitals... you just wanted to see if you could make me lose my mind. You’re just a needy little brat, aren't you? Starving for me to notice how well you take it."
"Yes," I sobbed, my head lolling back against his shoulder as the friction reached a fever pitch. "Yes, Doctor Abbott—"
"You’re pathetic," he groaned, though the way he gripped my hips told a different story; he was holding onto me like I was the only thing keeping him grounded. "Begging for a gold star while you're bent over a supply counter. Look at you. You’re a mess. My perfect, filthy little mess."
The degradation should have stung, but in the heat of the closet, with his heavy body crushing mine and his scent filling my lungs, it felt like the ultimate validation. He was seeing the real me, not the upbeat nurse with the doughnuts, but the girl who was desperate for him to claim her.
"Please," I whined, my legs finally beginning to give out. My walls were clamping down around him, a frantic, rhythmic pulsing that I couldn't control. "Jack—Doctor Abbott, please, I'm going to—"
"Go then," he growled, his pace becoming frantic, his breath hitching in a way that told me he was right there with me. He reached around, his thumb finding my clit and grinding down with one final, authoritative press.
The orgasm hit me like a physical trauma, a white-hot explosion that started in my core and radiated out until my fingertips were tingling. I let out a broken, high-pitched scream that I couldn't muffle, my back arching as I went rigid, my hands finally slipping from the shelf to claw at his forearms.
"That's it," he hissed, his own voice breaking. "Sweet girl. Take it all."
He didn't pull back. He drove into me one last time, buried to the hilt, his entire body shuddering as he followed me over the edge. I felt the heat of him filling me, a raw, hard-earned release that felt like the best validation in the world. He let out a low, soft moan into the crook of my neck, his fingers bruising my hips as he emptied himself into me, his pulse thudding against my own.
For a long minute, the only sound in the closet was our synchronised, ragged breathing and the distant, muffled hum of the hospital outside the door. Abbott didn't move; he stayed buried inside me, his forehead resting against my shoulder blade, his chest heaving against my back.
The silence was heavy, thick with the realisation of what we’d just done. The "Kid" and the "Attending" were gone, replaced by two people shivering in a dark room, surrounded by the scent of cleaning product, sterile soap, and the wreckage of their professional boundaries. A perfect HR nightmare.
He finally pulled back, the slide of him leaving me making me whimper at the sudden cold. He didn't look at me immediately; he leaned back against the opposite shelf, his hands shaking as he put his scrubs back on. The iron mask was trying to slide back into place, but the flush on his neck and the blown-out look in his eyes told me it wouldn't be that easy.
I stayed slumped against the metal, my scrubs in a heap at my ankles, my heart still trying to settle. I felt exposed, giddy, and terrified all at once.
"Twelve minutes," he muttered, glancing at his watch with a ghost of a cynical smirk. "If anyone asks, those sutures in Three really were a nightmare."
I looked at him, a shaky, tentative smile pulling at my lips. "Did I... did I do a good job, Doctor Abbott?"
He paused, his gaze raking over my dishevelled form, the marks on my thighs, and the way I was still looking at him for that final bit of approval. He stepped forward, his hand catching my chin and tilting my face up. For the first time all night, there was something genuinely soft in his eyes.
"You're a menace, Kid," he whispered, leaning down to press a firm, lingering kiss to my forehead. "Now get your clothes on. We have a shift to finish."