Mama……. Maybe we can get a little jack fluff after that…….. I feel uneasy
FREE SCRUB FRIDAY (j.a x reader)
ER's admin announces that staff will be allowed to wear whatever scrub color or design they want on Fridays, much to your immense, all-too-bubbly pleasure. Jack takes this as a moment to tease you, but it's too obvious he feels a certain way about your glittery, colorful new fits.
cuteness aggression strikes Jack's heart again! // solely fluff for the most part // JACK MASTERLIST // ROBBY MASTERLIST // it's nice to see Jack not be so obsessive over you...right? // WC: 2k // hope u enjoy! // sleazy!robby gets caught jerking off to you and ur scrubs
Free Scrub Friday starts as a rumor.
Someone mentions it at the nurses’ station, like it’s supposed to be a joke, and the idea, real or not, has you buzzing—one day out of the week to keep yourself out of grey, boring scrubs you spend way too much time accessorizing with clips and personalized, bedazzled badge reels.
A girl could dream. And you most certainly do.
But you find an announcement goes up on the board like it’s nothing.
FREE SCRUB FRIDAYS - morale initiative. ANY COLOR OR DESIGN PERMITTED.
Keep it appropriate. Can’t wait to see you all in style!
You read it twice over. Then a third time.
Your hand flies to your mouth.
“Oh my god!”
You’re not surprised that Jack hears you across the nurses’ station, and you’re not surprised that his totally exaggerated irritation is already queued either.
...You’re just not sure where he came from.
“What.”
“Jack, look!” You turn, eyes bright in a way you fail to keep under control. “They’re letting us wear whatever scrubs we want on Fridays.”
Jack squints at the sign. You imagine that his feelings about this wonderful, overdue idea aren’t as impassioned as yours are.
He crosses his arms after pulling on your scrub sleeve, fixing it, you think—you only think, if you allow the slight touch to seep into your already heightened emotions, you’ll find yourself with heated cheeks and a stutter you won’t be able to come back from.
The teases he could find then, God. Not now.
“That’s…ill-advised.”
Yep. You know him so well. That’s only your heart’s fault, really…amongst other factions of your anatomy, all pulsing, all needy—
What’s wrong with you?
“It’s fun. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”
Jack only mms in the depths of his throat. It’s where he takes the moment to eye your badge. And your shoes. And the numerous tiny pins you’ve forced upon your scrubs.
You pout, and unfortunately for your dignity, it’s purposeful, as if these ridiculous, cutesy bits could do anything to Jack.
...Well. Sometimes they do, although you think you exaggerate his stiff flusteredness. But those moments, riddled with the pulsing veins in his forehead or cheeks going just slightly red, are addicting.
You’re chasing it now.
“You already look like a craft store exploded on you.”
You gasp. How dare he? You know very well he’s not as annoyed with the way you wear your personality on your sleeve…for the most part.
“Excuse you. These are curated accessories.”
Jack does another once over, slow—badge, pins, shoes. He turns his eyes away in a quicker glance off to the hall, and his smirk is awfully slight.
“Mmhmm,” he mutters. “Very curated.”
You bounce on your heels despite Jack’s inability to see why this is the most amazing thing to ever happen to the Pitt.
“I have options. Real options. I can finally color-coordinate with my shoes, or I can wear my themed tops! Or—”
“No themes, Sleepy. It’ll take less than half the shift for someone’s bodily fluids to get on Winnie the Pooh.”
…How could he possibly know you have Winnie the Pooh theme scrubs?
“You don’t get a vote, Dr. Abbot.”
Dr. Abbot merely rolls his eyes, and you wonder if the clearing of his throat comes out harder than he wanted it to.
“Just—don’t go overboard. It’s a hospital, not a fashion show.”
“You say that like I own anything boring enough to not turn free scrub Friday into one.”
“That’s exactly what worries me, Sleepy.”
Jack steps closer, burning the distance away with a deep sigh, leaving his awful, stomach-flipping smile.
There it is, the burning in the fat of your face. Screw you, Dr. Abbot—Jack, Jackie. As stoic as you are, you know what you’re doing.
“This attending, for one, can’t wait to see Tigger and friends bloodied up for your laundry pile on Friday.”
Jack turns back to the sign, neck rolling stiff.
“Yeah, definitely would boost my morale. I don’t know about yours.”
Your heart skips a beat at his nearly muttered quip, or two—enough for it to make it down the hall in a half-second.
Jack watches you go and immediately wants to slit bits of him off for how invested he already is—in a way he can’t deny. It’s not just curiosity or a mild, rightful interest in seeing what the hell you plan on wearing. He’s sure everyone is.
…It’s the thought of you presenting yourself in a way that’s not dictated by hospital policy that sets something restless humming under his skin.
“You planning on wearing somethin’, Abbot?”
“The scrubs we’ve been mandated to wear for the past ten years.”
This burning, over fucking scrubs. Who knew that this would be the joke that makes up his life? He imagines it without meaning to, and that’s what he needs to tell himself.
Color. Movement. Something stupidly cheery that clashes with the Pitt’s fluorescent misery. Something that makes Kiddo look ever more like herself.
Like she needs to turn more heads than she already does. His little attention seeker.
The word’s anticipation. Jack can admit that, because…God…wanting to see what you’ll wear for free scrub Friday?
It’s at the bottom of the list of things he’s wanted to see when it comes to you, Sleepy. Still, it comes as warm as it comes unwelcome.
Whatever God that isn't there help him, he needs to see what glitter and color Kiddo is going to riddle herself with, and like with everything else in reference to her, her, her, he hates himself for how much.
Friday morning is a trap that Jack walks into willingly. He walks in earlier than he needs to, and it doesn’t take long for the Pitt to hum itself to life.
“Oh…Jesus.”
It’s Dana, because of course she wouldn’t leave before she sees whatever you’ve got planned. Jack assumes it’s you who is the victim of her exclamation.
He turns.
…He's correct. There you are.
You—normally grey scrubs, sparkles smuggled in through pens and clips—wearing a soft pink top with white accents. Which—that’s not the worst. Not at all. Pink to go with your shoes, he expected that.
It’s what’s scattered across the fabric that Jack can’t help but eye. Jesus Christ.
There it is, the familiar urge to turn you into something squeezable, scoopable.
Crushable.
“I wasn’t…” He swallows. “You look…”
God fucking damn it.
He steps back and stops, because the only words he can find are fucking adorable and pathetically precious, and those are words that will get him sent to HR. Or worse, he’ll be emotionally exposed.
“Oh my god, sunshine. You look like a Saniro sticker collage.”
Saniro? Is that the name of the rabbit girl?
Dana laughs.
“That’s shockingly appropriate. Man, you’re making me wish I had the initiative to wear my Bugs Bunny scrubs.”
You do a tiny spin, just enough to make the fabric flutter. “Free Scrub Friday! I waited my whole life for this moment.”
Jack’s past the point in denying that he has to fold his arms hard across the hammering of his heart. This is not the first time he’s had to suffocate the impulse to smother you, but Saniro—it’s making it pretty fucking hard to.
“This is a seismic level of distraction. Peds is calling.”
Something in his chest clenches. Hard. Just when you grin at him.
“That’s your way of saying you like it.”
Who the fuck cares if it is? Why are you smart enough to know that?
“I want you to go start an IV on four before I—”
Jack stops himself. Resets.
Before I say or do something filthily unprofessional, because I need to choke you for how adorable you are, see if you can squeak when I crush your bones, because grounding myself in holding you is the only way to stop the feeling from seeping out of my skin.
I don’t know why I know that. I think I’ve dreamt of this, kiddo.
“Next Friday, wear something boring.”
Why wouldn’t your smile turning dopey worsen his affection turn feral? Why? It’s not like he deserves otherwise.
“And miss out on that beautiful smile you’re giving me, Dr. Abbot? No promises.”
“I am not smiling.”
“You are. It’s just doing that thing that makes it look like you’re in pain.”
You pull on the hem of your scrub top, flattening out the material to present it like a poster.
The material at the top tightens around your bra.
He can only swallow at the sharp, visceral spike hitting him square in the sternum. Yep, why wouldn’t it, Abbot? With all the things you’ve dreamt about.
“Next Friday, wear something fun.”
Dana pffts. “Jack in anything that isn’t black or camo? I’d pay to say that.”
It ends there, thank God. He wouldn’t be able to get past the night if you asked him if he thought you were cute—his brain would’ve supplied twenty inappropriate, filthy, bone-crushing reactions and zero usable sentences.
But later, because of fucking course, you catch his eye from across the floor and grin.
Like you could know, like you could possibly know that there’s this stupid, animal impulse to squeeze your perfect, resentful body until you pop in his arms because of your stupid fucking rabbit scrub and bows.
Like you could know that even though this is very much your fault, Sleepy, it’s what gets Jack to hate himself even more.
This aggression at the altar of your ridiculousness.
…Like you could know he’s deeply invested in what you might choose to wear next Friday.
You wake up on your side at the burning stretch of his cock inside you, gasping with no time to comprehend the fact that he’s probably didn’t just start fucking you. Out of instinct, you trying pulling him out of you. It’s not that you don’t want him. You want him in your dreams, so this is fitting, but you just woke up after all.
You can feel how he only used spit for lubricant.
He pulls you back to him, the sweat of his chest gluing your bodies together. He only stops fucking you with his pulsing cock to steady himself back inside.
His breaths are hot at your ear when he gives your ass a smack in the second after.
You wonder with how he’s breathing so heavily, like it’s a challenge not to pop…how didn’t you wake up sooner?
You cry out. He nuzzled his forehead into the back of your neck.
You don’t think he was playing with your pussy before he stuffed himself in between walls long enough this time, it’s gonna take a little while to get yourself leaking on his cock.
“Don’t whine. You’re okay. You’re safe. She wants me.”
He holds you in this hug that’s nearly wholesome, his forearms tucked underneath your breast with the force that gives you no chance to move an inch away from him again.
“It’s okay, baby. I got you.”
With the low, moanish grunts at your neck, he doesn’t give you room to not believe him.
You think this is another night where you’re holding yourself together by breath. You’re awake again. You’ve been awake. Really, you don’t remember if you fell asleep at all tonight.
You get up, and it takes five seconds for your fingers to find your bebé’s bassinet rail. You peek over to watch them sleep.
…You know it’s not too quiet, they’re breathing. But it is, somewhere where your nerves bloom as they always do, it is. It’s where you hold your own breath without realizing it, like maybe it’ll be easier for them to breathe through the night if they don’t have to share.
“...Baby?”
You press your palm to their chubby, still body. It’s a movement that takes up their chest and belly, and you wait as you’ve been waiting every night, just to feel the vibration of their breathing against your skin.
…There.
You sniffle, eyes stinging. There, stupid. They’re breathing, they’ll never not breathe out into the world you brought them into.
The one you once wished they’d never see.
You take a sniff at your shirt, it smells like milk again. You haven’t changed all day, and with that fatigued choice, you end up drawing in the scent of something sweet and sour. Your body belongs to another’s now, a small, squirming body.
You guess you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re used to your body not being yours, you might even say—you should at least, at this point, that you revel in it—because it’s his as much as it is theirs.
Sweet baby. Handsomest man you’ve ever seen.
“Princesa.”
You know the sound of him at the door by now, but you flinch anyway. He’s behind you before you can settle. His hands are warm as always.
“Look at you. Awake. Again.”
It’s not a murmur, it’s a voice a little too loud for your liking, but you only swallow. Your throat feels ridiculously tight, because why wouldn’t it feel like you’ve been crying even though you haven’t? That’s been most nights.
“They were too quiet.” Your voice shakes and you shake that it does. “I thought—I thought maybe—”
Lalo hums before he snorts, and it’s a sigh that’s adding on to his series of sounds when you press two fingers into his goatee.
“Shh.”
His thumb brushes under your eye, a movement he’s done a thousand times before, but there’s no tears to lick away this time.
His other hand settles heavy on the back of your neck. You think you’re anchored.
Comfort. You need this. Let go. Baby’s okay.
“Too much thinking going on in that head of yours. Little brain doesn’t know how to rest.”
You feel your stomach twist itself into a nerved knot.
“I’m their mamá. I have to think.”
At that, you think Lalo’s smiling at you—teeth on display, thumb scratching at his mustache—like you’ve said something adorable, and you can’t even be regretful in feeling softened and flattered.
He tsks, head tilting forward—a usual, perfect scold.
“No, thinking’s my job, Princesa.”
His hand slides to cradle the back of your neck.
It’s only when your muscles give up that you realize how tense the nights made you.
You collapse into his steady, unbothered heartbeat.
Never stop before mine does.
“They need you calm, sweet girl.” You think his voice, deep and teasing within gravel, is almost instructional. “They feel it when you get worked up like this. You don’t want to scare them, huh? What they gonna do when Mamá gets nervous?”
Your breath stutters.
“No, I don’t—I would never—”
“I know. I know, sweet, pretty girl. That’s why I take care of you.”
Lalo guides you back to the bed, sitting beside you and pulling you into his side like you’re nothing but a feather. Like you need holding together.
You always will if it’s him, him, him. Papa.
“Your head makes things up—that’s what happens when uh…when those hormones go all over the place. Happens when you don’t sleep.”
“You don’t sleep.”
Lalo blinks, and it takes the next five seconds for him to snort again. He kisses the top of your head.
“Look at them.” He guides your chin toward the bassinet. “Sleeping like their Mamá should be. Safe like their Mamá is.”
…You nod because it’s easier than arguing, like you’ve ever actually argued his truth. He’s right. The fear is irrational, and you know it when he says it outloud…even though it felt so real a second ago.
speaking of father resenting daughters, lalo youngest daughter who is a spitting image of princesa, her personality is meek like her mothers except with her papa. She literally despises him and the way he acts with her mother. Lalo is upset whenever she is shy and sweet with everyone else but him.
For Lalo to have a daughter who almost looks exactly like Princesa with none of her forgiveness? Give me ten.
You think he feels gaslit at first? Seeing his little girl own her mother's softness, her gentle voice, and nervous little ticks made up of nerves and bouncing knees...only to get his ass handed to him when she becomes cold with him?
Being the youngest girl, she's probably the apple of her siblings' eyes, but Lalo knows better! His youngest Princesita acting like he's rotten. How dare she?
It's bad when she's nice to Uncle Nacho, or when she helps everyone around the house. But God forbid Papa walks in, the guy cannot stand being judged by his bebito wearing his wife's face.
The one kid who's the spitting image of his girl is the one kid who refuses to participate in the routine with him.
What kinda joke is God playing??
Lalo's over it when he finds them in the kitchen one afternoon. The baby's sweet with her.
"Careful, Mamá."
She pulls the bowl away from Princesa before she has to stretch too far.
Princesa smiles. Lalo smiles.
"I’m okay, baby."
"No. You always say that---"
"My girls making something without me?"
Princesa looks up immediately, but their little one does not. She keeps her eyes on the bowl. Lalo scoffs. Ridiculous.
He steps closer, tapping the counter twice with his knuckles. "Not even a hello for your papa?"
Their little girl presses the dough in the bowl flat with careless fingers.
"Hello."
Lalo laughs like there's a string of metal lined inside his throat.
"Ah. So formal. What did I do now?"
He says it like a joke, but hopefully, his girls are smart enough to know he wants an answer---
"You made Mamá sad yesterday."
Princesa whispers her name. Lalo’s smile stays. Barely.
"Did I? I didn't know that. Maybe you're thinking too much. She’s sensitive. Like you."
His Princesa gave birth to her own little guard dog. Thinking her mamá belongs to her more than to him.
Nacho realizes Princesa's postpartum anxiety is worsening when she's on the couch with eyes that are telling him that she hasn't slept in days. He doesn't know how the fuck she's gotten past Lalo with the self-neglect.
She's got the kid in her arms, fat cheek pressed against her chest, and Nacho thinks she's waiting for when she's supposed to feed them.
“You want me to hold them for a minute?” He nods towards her. “So you can, I don’t know—get some water? Stretch? Sleep?”
It's when her face molds into a look of fear. Not anger, not offense, what he can only guess is a panic, like he's gonna snatch the kid right out of her arms.
“Oh—no. No, it’s okay,” Her breath hitches. "I'm fine. Really. I don't need...they're fine right here."
Nacho raises his hands, palms out.
“Hey. I wasn’t saying you had to.”
Princesa nods too many times, the way she does when she wants to take hold of her bouncing knee but can't because she's got a chubby, squirming baby in her hands.
“I just—”
She presses her cheek against the baby's head, and Nacho would think they're your oxygen if he was quickly-fucking-realizing this is your problem.
“If I put them down and something happens—”
“Nothing’s gonna happen, kid."
It's when Princesa looks at Nacho like she wants to believe that and can’t, and that's a tale as old as fucking time between the two of you. Assurances. Promises. Ugly truths.
It just doesn't help that it isn't the two of you anymore, not with the gurgling thing that somehow needs you more than you need them.
How would Lalo react to some random saying something about how Lalo and princesa look together, not age gap wise specifically cause you’ve already gone off that before I believe. But just their dynamic in general and him making the most basic decisions for her
He'd mostly just care about someone outside their bubble noticing them and correctly identifying what's going on. Princesa being perceived is his nightmare.
Like, imagine they’re somewhere casual. A restaurant, maybe he’s ordering for her before she even opens her mouth. That sounds right.
"Damn, man, you decide everything for her?"
...I'm thinking of a terrible waiter. But Lalo would laugh his throat laugh, give a big smile, and friendly eyes. If you're not Princesa, you'd be unsure if you're in danger or he's just messing around. Well, Princesa still doesn't know most times.
"She can talk. She talks plenty, actually. Don't you, Princesa?"
If he's looking at her and seeing that she looks like she wants to shrink? His smile would grow warmer, but only with her, not with that fucker. If she seems unsure? No, no.
Lalo can tolerate being called controlling if his girl is with him. What he's not gonna tolerate is some bastard making her self-conscious about their...dynamic. Yeah. That's the word. The dynamic that he has fully convinced her (and him) is love.
I decide everything for her? Yeah. Obviously. Somebody has to, but who the hell else? She needs someone decisive. And it can only be me.
"Why. You worried about her?"
"...Just saying, man."
"No, no. I hear you, you are very kind. You, uh, always look out for women like this?"
Lalo would probably find Princesa's need to smooth it over very cute. Very stupid.
"It’s okay. He didn’t mean anything by it."
His hand would settle at her neck. He'd ask about it in the car like he's joking.
"Do I make all your decisions, Princesa?"
"...Sometimes."
"And is that so bad?"
He couldn't give less of a shit about reassuring her that he doesn't control her. His girl should know better by now.
...But he wouldn't mind if she reassured him that she loves it from time to time. Is that so much to ask for?
Pregnant Princesa riding Lalo in the driver's seat of the car cause they couldn't just wait to get into the house, and it just so happens that Nacho's stepped out of the house door to catch them.
Thank god that Princesa doesn't see, cause her little heart might give out if she realized. At least she'd die how she lived.
But, seriously, Nacho just feels so fucking sick at how Lalo can't choose between rubbing her swollen belly and groping her tits as he tries to smother himself with them.
Nacho goes back into the house instantly when Lalo catches him by his black eyes, but he turns back---why the fuck does he? Who knows. But he does, and he's pretty sure Lalo's choice to start fucking himself up into you was on purpose.
He sweats beads at how he can hear that wet slapping from where he's standing. He'll die later. Then, at least the sickness will have been worth something.
What deserves for turning around in the first place.
Have you ever answered this question: What would Lalo do if he found out Princessa was secretly taking birth control?
tw: dubcon pregnancy
This is an ask I like because the thought of Princesa doing this never came to me, even though this is something she would totally do after, like, kid three.
It may not seem realistic, considering her personality, but the woman did try to have a secret abortion that took a whole load of sneakiness, lying, and Nacho. So...
It's just that, as much as Princesa loves all of her children, she believes that she can't be a good mother to more than three babies. That the routine that's finally settled into her family with Lalo will be too hard to handle if she keeps getting pregnant.
That Lalo can't possibly want more.
Sure, the things he says while he's while he's stuffing her "the warm, perfect whore hole that made her a mama," says otherwise...
But we know that once Princesa's anxiety makes a decision, it sticks until Lalo intervenes.
What would Lalo do himself? That depends on how long Princesa gets away with secretly using birth control.
After bebito three, the guy's not so adamant on breeding his girl. Yeah, it's a fantasy that keeps his cock throbbing and worshiping her and her womb, but it's more of a situation where...if it happens, it happens, and he'll be an excited, proud papa nonetheless.
And it's going to happen. He's always going to put a bebé in sweet Princesa. Lalo's just more... assured it's going to happen without much effort now.
So. With this, it could be a while before the guy figures out Princesa's using birth control.
There would be a growing frustration with the fact that Lalo hasn't knocked her up with a fourth kid yet. He had no problem doing it the other times.
Fact, first time he fucked her was the first time he put a baby in her, and you're telling him he's going through a...what? A fertility dry spell? What a damn laugh!
Thing is, Lalo doesn't speculate it's Princesa's doing. The possibility that she's managed to bag herself some birth control to stop having his babies isn't a thought he denies. It's a thought he doesn't have at ALL.
Until he finds the pill pack tucked away somewhere.
The thoughts that come with that discovery are all laced with betrayal.
How fucking dare she?
Lalo would throw away the pack saved for one pill he takes out, just for effect, you know? To remind his girl how stupid she can be. Both in not wanting to be full of his babies anymore and in thinking she could get away with it.
Lalo needs this to be funny. Because if it's not...it's something else to set his bones on fire.
The night would be him acting. A performance of sweetness and toleration as he waits for the moment Princesa makes way into the bathroom or a different part of the house, now knowing she's all ready to take her little baby-stopper.
Always something with you, stupid girl.
It's probably the first time he's ever reveled in her panic when she comes back, the worried, skittish look in her eyes with twitchy hands.
Look how scared she is of the idea of having another bebé with you.
"You okay, Princesa?"
"...Mhm."
She's slowly looking around the room, trying not to be obviously in her search. Lalo watches her with unblinking eyes.
"You sure?" He's watching her from the bed, drumming his fingers on his thigh. "You don't need help looking for your pills?"
Princesa freezes, and it only takes five seconds for a trembling breath to leave her.
"What?"
Lalo pulls the pill out of his pocket, smiling thinly.
"I have one. If that helps you continue to sabotage our family."
He watches her fingers flex with a bobbing throat.
"Lalo, I just--I just...I can explain."
His shoulders roll against the headboard before he snaps his fingers at her, pursing his lips to call out to her--to call her to him.
"You don't have to explain, Princesa. You don't even have to apologize. Well, not now."
He pulls her skirt down, and when it's dropped to the floor, he pulls the slit cover of her panties to the side.
He stuffs two harsh fingers in her dry hole, showing nothing at the sounds of her soft, pained gasps.
"Another bebé will be your sorry, huh? For doing this to me."
Lalo presses his cheek to her stomach.
"Always doing something like this to me. At least the bebé Mama didn't want wasn't already growing inside her this time."
