DOCTOR'S ORDERS
ONE-SHOT
pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader
summary: You’ve been pushing Dr. Jack Abbot all night. Behind closed office doors, he decides to push back. Exhausted, irritable, and hanging by a thread, Jack finally gives in to weeks of unresolved tension.
wc: 3.3k
a/n: they aren't connected but consider this an appetizer to the young intern fic that won the poll I ran, it should hopefully be out in the next day or two. also, I'm currently taking Jack Abbot/Titus Danforth requests if anyone has any they'd like to send, deep in the Shawn Hatosy trenches right now 😮💨 not beta read
warnings: workplace power imbalance, authority kink, age gap, rough sex, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, possessive behavior, brat/brat taming dynamic, desk sex, public/workplace sex, spit/saliva, multiple orgasms, semi-aftercare, hospital setting
MASTERLIST
The office door shuts behind you with a soft click.
Jack doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there in the low light, scrub top wrinkled, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck, looking like the longest shift of his life has scraped him right down to the bone. Tired, mean, wound too tight. The blinds are half-drawn, the lamp on his desk casting that warm, dim glow that makes the whole room feel smaller than it is.
Worse than that—private.
“You got somethin’ you wanna say to me?” he asks.
His voice is low. Flat. Dangerous in that controlled way that means he’s barely holding the line.
You lean back against the closed door, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Depends. Am I in trouble, doctor?”
His jaw tightens.
That’s all the answer you need.
“You’ve been pushing me all day,” he says, stepping closer. “Smart mouth. Smarter attitude. Those little looks every time you think I’m not paying attention.”
He stops right in front of you.
“But I am.”
The words land hot.
Because of course he’s noticed. Jack notices everything. Every glance, every pause, every second you let your mouth run just to see if you could get a reaction out of him.
Turns out you could.
His hand lands on the door beside your head, boxing you in without touching you. Yet.
“You got any idea,” he says, quieter now, “how hard it’s been to stay professional with you looking at me like that?”
Your breath catches, and his eyes flick to your mouth like he heard it.
“There,” he mutters. “That.”
You swallow. “Maybe you’re imagining things.”
Jack laughs once under his breath, but there’s nothing amused about it. “No, sweetheart. I’m not.”
The endearment hits low and hard.
His hand finally comes up, rough palm settling at your jaw, thumb brushing once along your chin before he tips your face up. The touch is firm. Certain. Not gentle, but not careless either.
“Look at me.”
You do.
Bad idea.
The look on his face nearly knocks the air out of you—exhausted, hungry, irritated, and underneath all of it, something worse. Something desperate.
“You wanna know what your problem is?” he asks.
“What?”
His thumb drags lightly at the corner of your mouth.
“You like seeing how far you can push before I break.”
The silence after that feels filthy.
Because he’s right.
And because the second he sees that on your face, something in him gives.
“Yeah,” he says softly, eyes dropping to your lips. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he steps in close enough that your pulse goes wild, his forehead brushing yours for half a second before he exhales hard.
“You should go home,” he says.
You whisper, “Make me.”
“Cocky little thing,” he mutters, breathing hard. “And so goddamn good the second I get my hands on you.”
The praise hits even harder than the mean edge.
“All night,” he growls, his voice a low, graveled wreck. His breath is hot against your mouth. “All fucking night with that smart mouth. Pushing me. Testing the last goddamn nerve I have left.”
You open your mouth to say something—another smart thing, another push—but he doesn’t let you.
He kisses you.
It’s not gentle. It’s a claiming. His mouth crashes down on yours, hard and desperate. His tongue pushes past your lips, hot and slick, and there’s nothing polished about it. It’s sloppy. Dirty. A wet, open-mouthed clash of teeth and tongue that steals your breath. You taste the bitter coffee on his tongue, feel the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin. He groans into your mouth, a raw, hungry sound, and his grip on your jaw tightens, tilting your head back to take more.
You kiss him back just as messily, your hands fisting in the front of his scrub top. The fabric is damp with sweat under your palms. Your tongues slide together, a wet, frantic rhythm that has you both breathing hard through your noses. Spit drips from the corner of your mouth, a hot trail down your chin. He licks it away, his tongue rough against your skin, before diving back into your mouth.
He finally breaks the kiss with a wet sound, both of you gasping. A string of saliva connects your lips for a second before it snaps. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes dark, pupils blow wide enough his irises are just thin blue rings.
“Look what you did,” he rasps, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. His hand leaves your hip and slides down, palming you roughly between your legs through your scrubs.
You jerk against him, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his fingers pressing harder, rubbing the soaked cotton against you. “You’re fucking dripping for me. Soaked through. This what you wanted? Hmm? All that backtalk just to get my hand here?”
“You’re the one—ah—cornering me,” you pant, arching into the pressure.
“Damn right I am.” His fingers hook into the waistband of your scrub pants and your underwear, yanking them down to your thighs in one rough pull. The cold office air hits your wet skin, making you shiver. He doesn’t hesitate. Two of his thick fingers push inside you without warning.
You cry out, your knees buckling. He holds you up, his arm like an iron bar across your back.
“Jesus,” he grunts, his fingers curling deep. The sound is obscene—a wet, squelching noise as he pumps them in and out, his knuckles slick with your arousal. “Listen to that. Fucking soaked. You been this wet all shift? Thinking about this?”
You can only nod, your forehead bumping against his shoulder. The stretch is perfect, his fingers filling you exactly right, rubbing a spot inside that makes your vision blur. Your own wetness coats your inner thighs, hot and messy.
“Tell me,” he commands, his mouth at your ear. His breath is ragged. “Tell me how bad you wanted this old man to fuck you stupid over his desk.”
“Yes,” you whimper. The crude words send another pulse of heat through your core. “Wanted it. Wanted you to—fuck—”
He scissors his fingers, stretching you wider, and you moan, long and loud. The sound bounces off the sterile office walls.
“That’s it. Gonna make you come on my hand first. Gonna feel that pretty pussy clamp down.” His pace quickens, his fingers driving into you with a relentless, practiced rhythm. The wet squelch get louder, filthier. You can feel your own juices coating his hand, dripping down his wrist. “Then I’m gonna bend you over and fill you with my cock. Gonna pump you so full of cum it’ll be dripping out of you when you walk out of here.”
The promise, the vulgarity, the relentless friction of his fingers—it coils the tension in your belly tight, then tighter. Your hips buck against his hand, chasing it. A high, desperate noise claws its way out of your throat.
“There. Right there, you brat,” he growls, his own control fraying. “Come for me. Now.”
It shatters you. Your body seizes, a violent, clenching wave that ripples from your core out to your fingertips. You gasp into his scrubs, your teeth biting the fabric as you convulse around his fingers, your inner muscles fluttering and gripping him tight. He works you through it, his fingers never stopping, milking every last pulse until you’re sagging against him, boneless and gasping.
He pulls his fingers out slowly, and you whimper at the loss. He brings his hand up between your faces. His fingers glisten under the lighting, slick and shiny with your release. He holds your gaze, his own eyes black with want, and puts his fingers in his mouth. He sucks them clean, a long, deliberate pull, his tongue swirling around the digits.
“Fucking perfect,” he murmurs, the words muffled around his fingers.
Then his hands are on your shoulders, turning you roughly. He pushes you forward until your palms slap down on the cool, polished surface of his desk. A pen rolls off and clatters to the floor. He kicks your feet wider apart, the scrub pants tangling around your ankles. You hear the rustle of fabric, the quick tear of a foil packet—then the sound stops.
“No,” he grunts, and you hear the packet get tossed aside. It lands with a soft tap on the leather chair. “Gonna feel you. All of you.”
His hands grip your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. You feel the blunt, hot head of his cock press against your entrance raw, nudging through your slick folds. He’s huge, stretching you even more than his fingers did. He lets out a shaky, ragged breath you’ve never heard from him before—a sound of pure, desperate relief.
“Look at you,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Taking me so good. Gonna ruin you.”
He pushes inside.
It’s a slow, brutal invasion. An inch, then another, stretching you open, filling you completely. The burn melts into a deep, aching fullness that steals the air from your lungs. You feel every thick vein, every pulse of him. He bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, and you both freeze for a second, panting.
“Fuck,” he grunts, his voice strained. “Tighter than I dreamed. So fucking tight and wet.”
He pulls back almost all the way, then slams back in.
The sound is raw—the wet slap of his skin against yours, the creak of the desk, a choked moan from your throat. He sets a punishing pace from the start, no warm-up, just deep, hard drives that jolt you forward with every thrust. His grip on your hips is iron, sure to leave bruises. The wet, squelching sound of your combined arousal fills the room, a filthy soundtrack to his grunts and your cries.
“That’s it,” he snarls, leaning over you, his chest hot against your back. His mouth finds your ear. “Take it. Take all of this old man’s cock. You asked for it. You fucking begged for it with those eyes all night.”
You’re babbling, a stream of “yes” and “please” and “Jack!” that he swallows with another sloppy, sideways kiss against your cheek. His thrusts get deeper, meaner, angling in a way that makes you see stars. The coil inside you winds again, impossibly fast.
“Gonna come again,” you sob, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick desk. “Jack, I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he commands, his own rhythm starting to fracture. “Come on my cock. Squeeze it out of me. I wanna feel you milk me dry.”
His words are the final trigger. Your second climax crashes over you, a deeper, more consuming wave than the first. Your inner walls clamp down on him in rhythmic pulses, and you whimper, high-pitched, needy, and broken.
It tips him over the edge. With a guttural groan that’s pure release, he buries himself to the hilt and lets go. You feel the hot, thick pulse of his cum flooding you, filling you up just like he promised. He grinds his hips against you, pumping every last drop deep inside, his body shuddering against yours.
He collapses over you, his weight heavy and warm. Both of you are breathing in ragged, shattered gasps. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your back. You feel him, still hard and twitching inside you, buried to the root.
Slowly, carefully, he pulls out.
A hot, creamy trickle immediately escapes you, sliding down your inner thigh. The sensation is obscene. Intimate. He turns you around, his hands gentler now but still possessive on your arms. His eyes are hazy, satiated, the sharp edges softened for a moment. They drop from your face, down your body, to the mess between your legs.
He stares at the thick, white drip making its slow path down your thigh. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. He reaches down, not to wipe it away, but to swipe his thumb through the trail. He brings his thumb to his mouth, tasting you and him mixed together. His eyes close for a second. “Fuck.”
He pulls you against him, one arm wrapping around your back. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. He rests his forehead against yours again, both of you breathing the same air, sweaty and spent. The office is silent except for your slowing breaths and the distant, muffled page for a doctor over the hospital PA.
“You should clean up,” he says finally, the words a rough whisper against your lips. But he doesn’t let go. His fingers tighten in your hair.
The distant, muffled page for a doctor cuts off. A new, sharper, more urgent tone slices through the quiet.
“Dr. Abbott. Trauma One. Dr. Abbott, stat.”
The voice over the PA is calm, but the words are a bucket of ice water thrown over the warm, damp haze clinging to both of you.
Jack’s body goes rigid against yours. His fingers, which had been gently tangled in your hair, still. For three long seconds, he doesn’t move. He just breathes against your lips, his forehead still pressed to yours, as if he could wish the world away.
Then he lets out a slow, ragged exhale. It’s the sound of a man surfacing from deep water, dragged back to a reality he’d gladly drown in.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. The haze in his eyes is gone, burned away by professional instinct, but what’s left isn’t the cold detachment of before. It’s something sharper, more conflicted. His gaze flicks from your eyes, to your swollen lips, down to where his cum is still seeping from you. A muscle works in his jaw.
“You heard it,” he says, his voice graveled raw. It’s not a question.
You nod, your own breath catching. The spell is broken, but the aftermath is a physical imprint on your skin, in your muscles, between your legs. You feel raw. Used. Perfect.
He finally releases you, his hands dropping to his sides. He takes a full step back, and the sudden space between you feels colder than the antiseptic air. He runs a hand through his hair, further messing it up. His eyes sweep over you, a quick, clinical assessment that makes your skin flush.
“Clean up,” he says again, the command returning to his voice, but it’s layered now. It’s not just an order. It’s a concession. An admission that this can’t linger here in the open.
He turns away from you, moving to the small sink in the corner of his office. He doesn’t look at you as he pumps the soap dispenser, as he scrubs his hands and forearms with a ferocity that goes beyond surgical sterility. The water runs hot, steam rising. He’s washing you off of him.
You stand there, trembling slightly, feeling the slow, thick trickle make another path down your thigh. You glance around. There’s a box of tissues on his desk, next to the pen that had rolled off. You reach for it, your movements clumsy.
The sound of the water stops. You hear the rough tear of a paper towel from the dispenser.
“Don’t.”
You freeze, a tissue halfway to your thigh. He’s turned, leaning back against the sink, watching you. He’s drying his hands, but his eyes are locked on you.
“Just…get dressed,” he says, his voice lower. “I’ll get you something from the supply closet. Something proper.”
He means wipes. The kind they use on patients. The implication—that you’re a mess that requires medical-grade cleaning—sends a fresh, shameful thrill through you.
You nod, letting the tissue fall to the floor. You bend, wincing at the ache in your muscles, and pull your scrub pants back up. The cotton is rough against your sensitive flesh. You fasten them, the act feeling absurdly mundane. When you straighten, he’s already at the door, his hand on the knob.
He pauses, his back to you. His shoulders are tense under his top. “Stay here. Don’t open the door. Don’t make a sound.”
“Jack—”
He glances over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes silences you. It’s not anger. It’s possession. A fierce, blazing claim that contradicts every word about cleaning up and leaving. “I mean it. You move from this spot, and we’re going to have a much bigger problem than a trauma alert.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut softly behind him, leaving you alone in the silent, sex-scented office.
The silence is deafening. You can hear the hum overhead, the faint, steady beep of some distant monitor. You wrap your arms around yourself. His smell is on your skin. His taste is in your mouth. Your body throbs in time with your heartbeat, a deep, satisfied ache centered between your legs. You’re sore. You’re sticky. You’ve never felt more alive.
You look at the desk. The polished surface is smeared, a testament to what happened here. You walk over, your legs unsteady, and run your fingers over the cool wood. You can still feel the ghost of his weight pressing you into it, the slam of his hips.
The door opens again so quickly it makes you jump. He slips back inside, a sealed packet of antiseptic wipes in one hand. He locks the door behind him.
He doesn’t speak. He just comes to you, tears the packet open with his teeth, and pulls out a thick, damp cloth. He kneels in front of you.
Your breath hitches. “You don’t have to—”
“Quiet.”
His hand is firm on your hip, holding you still. With the other, he pushes the waistband of your scrubs down just enough. His touch is clinical, efficient, but his eyes aren’t. They’re fixed on the mess he made, watching as he wipes the thick, creamy evidence from your skin. The cloth is cool, the scent sharp and medicinal, clashing violently with the musk of sex in the air.
He’s thorough. He cleans your inner thighs, the join of your legs. Each pass of the wipe is deliberate. He folds it to a clean side, starts again. You watch the top of his head, the way his hair is still disheveled from your fingers. You see the pulse beating in his temple.
He finishes, balls up the used wipe, and stands. He tosses it into the small biohazard bin by his desk. Then his eyes meet yours.
“Better?” he asks, his voice a rough scrape.
You shake your head. “No.”
A ghost of something—not a smile, but a crack—passes over his face. He reaches out, his calloused thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Me either.”
The PA crackles again, less urgent now but still insistent. “Dr. Abbott, please report to Trauma One.”
The spell breaks a second time. He drops his hand, his expression hardening back into that of a senior ER doctor. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
He studies you for another long moment, as if memorizing the sight of you here, wrecked and his, in his office. “You leave in five minutes. Go straight home. Don’t talk to anyone.”
“Or what?” you whisper, the brat in you surfacing through the haze, needing one last push.
His eyes darken. He leans in, his mouth a breath from your ear. “Or I’ll find you. And I won’t be gentle next time. I’ll take you somewhere there’s no PA system. Somewhere I can listen to you scream for hours. Now get out of my sight.”
He turns and walks to the door, unlocking it. He doesn’t look back as he opens it and strides out into the bright, sterile hallway, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving you alone with the threat, the promise, and the deep, aching emptiness he left inside you.
