#mand0flufftober

[themand0lorian]

FLUFFTOBER DAY 10-TICKLISH

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: Din isn't used to touch, and it takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize it.

Pairing: Din Djarin x GN!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating:  PG

Words: ~1000 (also on AO3)

Tags: S1 spoilers of the Mandalorian, minor wound care, tickling, the softest Din Djarin you've ever read

Notes: Maybe not quite as happy as most ticklish fics would be, but here we are! Still soft fluff!

It started with a hunt gone bad.

You had only travelled with the Mandalorian for a few cycles at that point, a glorified babysitter to the little bogwing he only called “Kid.” You had few skills that could help in bounty hunting, in fixing his decrepit ship, in communicating with alien babies. But you tried your hardest.

So when Mando returned from a hunt late at night, fighting a grunt before shoving the bounty into carbonite, you first only peered at him from the cot. Watched as he took stuttered steps, as he sighed and groaned as silently as possible. As he broke out the medkit, the light on his helmet switching on to reveal a gash on his upper ribs.

The sight of blood had you on your feet and in front of him in an instant; you had basic first aid knowledge, but really—it was the caring, nurturing part of you that carried you over to him, wanting to help the fearsome bounty hunter who had shown you the only kindness you’d ever known in your life. He almost startled when you appeared in front of him, gentle hands over his to take the supplies from him, a whispered “Let me help,” to prevent waking the child. Mando only nodded after a moment of contemplation, silently handing the tools to you. When your hands touched his bare skin—only feather-light, trying to assess the damage—he twitched harshly. Both of you whispered apologies in unison, and you got to work patching him up.

By the next time, things had changed between you and your Mandalorian. You hadn’t discussed it, but you knew all the same—heard whispered conversations with the baby about you, him calling you “mom.” Fleeting touches as Mando passed you in the hull, seemingly any excuse he could find to touch you he took. The fierce protection he put you under whenever you left the ship, a cautious hand leading you from stall to stall. He talked to you, really talked to you, under the cover of hyperspace and impenetrable armor. About his life, about his fears. About anything, as long as you would listen.

So when you almost lost him to Gideon, when you had to leave him behind in that fiery cantina, it felt like a part of your heart was left there, too.

You were lucky, this time. Mando had survived, thanks to IG-11. He had defeated Gideon, taking down his cruiser. He was back with you on the Razor Crest, where your little family belonged.

Unable to process the emotions of the day, you turned to chores—repetitive, monotonous. Perfect to get lost in. Going up to the cockpit, Mando sat with the sleeping child, seeming to just watch him, ensure he was still there.

“I’m going to throw some laundry in, Mando—give me your cape.” You reach for the garment, still tucked around his neck; he lets you take it off, dusty—singed, bloodied—shivering as the fabric slithers along his neck. Before you can walk away with it, a gloved hand reaches out to grab your wrist.

“Please—stay.” You nod, following his lead as he pulls you into his lap. Almost naturally, your hands sling around his neck—another shiver—as you nestle into the space there. The three of you sit in content silence, just enjoying the fact that you’re there—you’re alive, you’re together. You’re a family.

It should have clicked for you. Mando—no, Din, you still have to remind yourself sometimes—spent most of his life covered head-to-toe; the only somewhat revealed inch of him the bottom of his chin, your favorite spot to press chaste kisses, and seemingly, one of the only expanses of skin that didn’t make him flinch. Everything about you was gentle, reverent—loving, though Din wasn’t ready to admit that part just yet. Combined, every touch you blessed him with seemed to zap electricity through him, twitches and shutters he couldn’t quite help. When you ran a hand under the helmet, twining your fingers through the ends of his hair, and he practically yelped, your brain finally made the connection. It took some time until you voiced it.

“Din—are you…ticklish?”

“No!” he answered, almost too quickly, focusing even harder on cleaning his blaster. You quickly stepped toward him, poking your fingers into his side; his entire body jumped at the contact.

“Oh my gosh! You are! The big bad Mandalorian is ticklish!” you snort, watching as his shoulders droop.

“I just—I’m not used to this. To—touching. Someone touching me without wanting to hurt me,” he murmurs, and you soften, taking your prescribed place on his lap before answering.

“It’s cute, Din. I’m sorry if it sounded like I was making fun of you.”

“No, it didn’t, I just—” he sighs heavily, and you know the end of the sentence. He doesn’t like feeling weak, feeling powerless—his own body betraying him. So you continue.

“You’re still my big bad Mandalorian, Din. So strong, so handsome, so capable—” you coo, and his back straightens a bit more in pride. “I know you’ll always protect me—” In turn, you run a hand over his exposed neck, causing him to flinch again. You quickly stand, knowing what’s coming with your next words.

“As long as the bounties don’t tickle you,” you giggle, and he stands, too, murmuring a playful “you’ll pay for that” and practically chasing you down the short hull until he has you in his arms, both of you laughing in unison. You look up to his visor, wishing, not for the first time, that he could rip it off and kiss you—and you think he might, if he’s looking at you the way you think he is. Suddenly, his strong grip turns, wiggling fingers pushing into your hips, under your arms, at the crease of your neck. Mando holds you in place as you screech in laughter, pinning you to him as he punishes you with your own form of torture.

“Who’s the ticklish one now, cyar’ika?”

TAGS: @ophelialoveshandsomemen @ksd24670 @rosiefridayrogersunday @evelynseventyr @ajeff855 @thewintersoldierswife @knowledgefulbutterfly @amneris21 @sarahjkl82-blog @hellovanessax @rebel-fanfare @tobealostwanderer @randomness501 @farfromjustordinary @outlawedmando @agirllovespancakes @pedrostories @solemnlyswearss @mandocrasis @raspberrymama @pjkimrn @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @marydjarin @eri16 @curiouskeyboard @frankiemoraleswifexo @dream-visual-51 @fangirl-of-randomness @aquilacorvinal @notagamersdey  @castleamc @folklord @heavenseed76 @dessinemoiunehistoire @bella-law @bluevxnus @ohlawdthebirds​

[themand0lorian]

🎃 💟 ✨FLUFFTOBER 2021✨ 💟 🎃

lalright y’all, I needed very little convincing to participate in Flufftober this year!

(list heavily adapted from @flufftober2021​!! thanks for putting this together!!)

I won’t guarantee that I will actually post every day, and some will be short (less than 1000 words). I still have PAPAM going, but a lot of these I changed to fit fics I already have written/fleshed out!

Expect to see some PAPAM, the Falling Slowly series conclusion, some Impression, Sunrise content, and more! I will take requests/suggestions, but please understand I already have some in mind (bolded prompts available for requests), so I may not accept all of them! All Pedro characters welcome, but I prefer Marcus M/P, Mando, Whiskey, Javier, and Frankie. No RPF.

I hope everyone’s as excited as I am! Half combining this with a 500 follower celebration which I somehow missed, so thanks fam 💖

Masterlist below the cut! Starts tonight with the next PAPAM chapter!

All fics are x Reader, and all will have a happy ending! All tagged #mand0flufftober

Handwritten Letters (PAPAM)

Sneaking Out Together (Marcus Pike x Reader)

Beach Day (Falling Slowly Series)

Sparklers & Fireworks (Marcus Pike x Reader Request)

Amnesia (Whiskey x Reader pt 1)

Fireman’s Carry (Marcus Moreno x Reader pt 1)

Meddling Friends (Frankie Morales x Reader)

Pregnancy/Kids (Impression, Sunrise Universe)

Text Messages (Whiskey x Reader pt 2)

Ticklish (Din Djarin x Reader)

Self Consciousness (Frankie Morales x Reader)

Sleepy Kiss  (Din Djarin x Reader)

Only One Bed (Marcus Moreno x Reader pt 2)

Slow Dancing (Frankie Morales x Reader)

Enemies to lovers (Javier Peña x Reader)

Overheard confessions (Frankie Morales x Reader)

Jealousy (Javier Peña x Reader)

Pets (Impression, Sunrise Universe)

Flowers (Frankie Morales x Reader)

"I thought I lost you." (Whiskey x Reader pt 3)

Knuckle Kiss (Din Djarin x Reader)

Flirting at Work (Javier Peña x Reader)

PDA (Din Djarin x Reader)

Caught in the Rain (Javier Peña x Reader)

Cuddling & Snuggling (Marcus Pike x Reader)

Embarrassing moment (Marcus Moreno x Reader)

“Here, have my jacket” (All the boys x reader, blurbs for each)

Desperate hug (Marcus Moreno x Reader pt 3)

Up Against the Wall Kiss (Whiskey x Reader)

Fall Asleep in My Lap (Din Djarin x Reader)

Halloween Costumes (Impression, Sunrise Universe)

[themand0lorian]

DAY 8-PREGNANCY/KIDS

Practice Makes Perfect (An Impression, Sunrise Oneshot)

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: Your family has always been complete, but you find you have a little more love to give.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N) from my Impression, Sunrise story!

Rating:  PG-13 (pregnancy and associated symptoms, slightly suggestive)

Words: ~4500 (oops) (AO3)

Tags: pregnancy, infertility issues, needles, doctors and hospitals, babies, Eli and Grace call Marcus/Reader Daddy/Mommy, mostly fluffy even when its heavy

Notes: This fic deals with infertility issues and treatments that eventually result in a baby, but no talk of losing children. I read a lot of pregnancy fics where it's like "oops, it happened!" and make it seem easy, but I know that for me (and millions of other women) it will not be easy like that if I ever choose to get pregnant, and I used this as my outlet for those feelings. If this triggers you in any way, please don't read, and know you have my full support <3

If you need a TL;DR on Impression Sunrise--Marcus and Reader were on a raid and found two small children (Grace and Eli), and end up as their guardians as they look for their birth parents despite barely knowing each other. When that doesn’t pan out, they adopt them fully, and Marcus and Reader end up together romantically. This takes place 2-3 years after the original story.

It started when Mike and Alex adopted Milo—a little bundle of joy, wrapped in a receiving blanket and passed around like the most precious hot potato. The kids—Emmie, Eli, Grace—could not care any less, other than when the baby squalled and pooped, both of which were so novel they found it funny. But Marcus—Marcus was enthralled.

Every little gurgle and coo, 10 tiny fingers and 10 tiny toes, a round milk belly with a silly little belly button, and even a blown-out diaper were treated like reverent gifts; any chance to hold or feed or burp or change was jumped at without question. Marcus hadn’t had the baby, but he was glowing all the same.

You practically had to pull him away from the little bundle, bringing Eli and Grace home well past bedtime and allowing Mike and Alex a chance to hold their own baby for the first time in hours. Marcus didn’t say anything—and he never would—but you saw his face, felt your heart somersault when the baby’s little fingers gripped his large one. You’re pretty sure he cried when he saw the little boy, though he wouldn’t admit it.

You and Marcus had been on the same page about kids—namely, babies—discussing it when you weren’t sure your family of four would come to fruition. It hadn’t felt right at the time—felt like a replacement for two little cherub faces that left a hole in your heart. But now—now the kids had been officially adopted for years. You had Marcus’ last name—you were The Pikes. Eli was settled into Kindergarten, Grace in preschool, and you wondered—maybe the Pikes were meant to be a family of five.

You had done your fair share of “practicing,” slipping it in when the kids were in school or had dinner with Lisa. You hadn’t exactly been trying to conceive, but you weren’t exactly trying not to conceive either. You both figured, if it happened—great. If not—also good. But maybe seeing that small baby in Marcus’ strong arms, maybe watching as he sung Eli and Grace goodnight in your bed before carrying them to their own—you thought maybe you should start trying for real.

You put on your best lingerie (which, at this point, meant a bra and panties that actually matched and had functioning elastic) while Marcus carried Eli to bed—Eli required Marcus say goodnight to each of his stuffed animals, so you knew you had a minute. Then you sprawled on the bed, waiting for his arrival—the mix of surprise and arousal making you giggle.

“Hey, Eli said he needs colored pencils for school tomor—woah.” He takes a moment to take you in, and you try not to cover yourself in embarrassment as a grin spreads across his face. “Did I forget something?”

“No, baby—I want to talk to you.” He climbs on the bed eagerly, beginning to undo his tie until you place your hands over his.

“What’s wrong, sunshine?”

“Nothing! Nothing,” you reassure quickly, placing a peck to his lips. “I just—you know how we’ve never really tried to get pregnant, but we also haven’t exactly prevented it, either?” His eyes rove over you as he bites his lip, and you see a glimmer of hope as you undo his tie for him. “I was wondering—what if we tried. For real.”

“You mean—”

“I wanna have a baby with you, Marcus. Your baby,” you clarify, beginning to unbutton his shirt. A wide smile finally breaks out, and your husband practically dives into you, pushing you down onto the bed as he pressed kisses all over your face and body, giddily excited before his eyes turn dark with arousal.

“Well then, let’s get started, shall we?”

The first few times you took a test you waited together, cramped on the toilet or the edge of the tub and waiting for two lines to show up that never did. Though mildly dejected, Marcus was never a quitter, and would try again right there if you’d let him—a lot of times, you had. But you had seen the movies, the tv shows—it was supposed to happen by now. Try one time, Oops it’s positive!, all live happily ever after. After your sixth negative test, the two of you buckled down—enough practice, time to perform.

There was so much to buy. You weren’t exactly poor, but life in DC wasn’t exactly cheap either, and apparently you needed so much. Ovulation tests, fertility vitamins, hokey essential oils, 100-packs of pregnancy tests that taunted you with negative results. Apps that told you down to the minute when you should try, which took some of the fun out of it—but Marcus insisted he was down for you any minute, even if it meant pausing the folding of the laundry while the kids watched TV, the sound of the dryer muffling your actions. Insurance would cover some of the medical procedures, if it came to it, but so much was out of pocket, and at the end—you might not even have a baby out of it.

Marcus wanted everything. He read books from the library, had webpage after webpage bookmarked of “crazy hacks” and more reputable medical journals. Like everything in his life, he wanted to know all there was to know—wanted that sense of control over something so uncontrollable. He couldn’t do anything, aside from the practicing you both continued to do when you had the chance, so he turned your bedroom into a medical office, constantly telling you about teas and room temperature differences and positions until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Marcus, please—I love you, and I love how into this you are, but please—I need my husband back,” you pled one night as he touted his latest “hack” about eating pineapple cores. “I—I don’t want to schedule our alone time. I don’t want my phone telling me when I can have you anymore.”

“I’m sorry, baby, I just—I feel—”

“Helpless?” You finish for him, and he nods, placing his book on the nightstand sadly. You pull him to you, nuzzling into his chest. “I do too.”

“Are you kidding? You’re a goddess! You’re the one who has to do all the work, I just—” he makes a squelching noise with his mouth and you slap him playfully in the chest while complaining about him being gross. “It’s true.”

“What if—what if I’m not, Marcus?” you say smally, and the tone of the room shifts from laughter to quiet somberness. “What if I—I can’t do this? What if I can’t be a mom?”

“You are a mom,” he murmurs into your hairline. “You’re a mom every single day, whether you birthed them or not.”

“I know, I just—”

“I know, baby. I—I love you. No matter what happens. Whether you want to stop trying or keep trying or find two more abandoned children in an empty house, I love you, and I’ll support you.” You roll your eyes at him, and he pulls you closer to place a kiss to your crown. “We are a family. Full stop. We may choose to add to it, but nothing can take it away.”

You nod quietly, a quiet “I love you too” whispered into his chest, letting a tear fall from your cheek to be absorbed by his tshirt, and the two of you fall asleep intertwined.

After three more failed tests, you end up at a fertility doctor, nervously wringing your hands. The kids are with Lisa as Marcus reads a baby magazine at your side—you’re worried you might throw up. You’d always wanted to be a mom, and though you had come to see that dream somewhat unconventionally, you knew in your heart of hearts that you wanted to carry a child, Marcus’ child, into the world, and if the doctor said otherwise, you would be devastated. You don’t know if you’re going to go through with anything, but you just want to know, to know if it’s even possible.

She claims it is, though unlikely, given your age. You never thought early thirties would be considered “geriatric,” but by fertility standards, you’re practically elderly. She does all her checks on you both, finding nothing inherently wrong, but giving it to you straight—it could happen. But if you really wanted this, you would need some help.

You end up going home with what feels like a ream of paper full of different options, each with an associated cost. You spent what days pouring over the options, knowing the ticking time bomb within you wouldn’t get any better. Still, real life had to go on; Eli had a dance recital, pancakes were served on Saturdays. When Grace recognized the word “baby” on a sheet you left out, the paperwork was moved to the bedroom, covering every inch. When Marcus walks in from Grace’s bath, you immediately launch into your thoughts.

“Is it selfish? We—we already have two great kids. Is it selfish to want one of our own? I mean, this money—they could go to college. We could buy a new car.” His face softened, approaching you on the bed to look over your shoulder at the angry numbers.

“If we got a new car you’d crash it,” he teased, wrapping his hands around your waist.

“Marcus I’m serious!”

“No, baby. It’s not selfish. I know it’s a lot but—I want this with you. And if you do too, then we’ll make it work. That’s that.” You nod, leaning further into his embrace to share a kiss. “Besides, Grace hit a whiffle ball out of the park today. She’ll be on a softball scholarship in no time.” You roll your eyes as he pulls you closer to him; the papers crumpling underneath you.

“She’s three, Marcus.”

“And the best whiffle ball player there is,” he hums, pulling you to him to “practice” yet again.

You end up deciding on some fertility treatments, dipping your toes in the water to see if you have better luck before turning to more invasive procedures.

The first time Marcus gave you a fertility shot was like a scene out of a bad comedy. The kids were asleep; you were laying on the bed, waiting for him to just do it already, as his hands wavered over your abdomen. He had prepped the area diligently, removed the plastic cap of the needle, held it “like a pencil” just like he was taught, but he had trouble taking the plunge.

“I-I can’t hurt you.”

“Marcus it’s like one second, please just do it. The waiting is worse.” He nods, swallowing harshly, muttering himself to insert it “like a dart,” then—

The needle is barely in your skin before he passes out completely, cutting a gash on his head that lands him in the emergency room and you left to start over next month, choosing to do the shots while he was bringing Eli to bed each night. Despite the pain, the emotions and the mental fatigue associated, you followed the routine diligently, Marcus only getting slightly better around needles as they began to accumulate in your bathroom.

Next to a negative test.  

After two rounds of the shots, the doctor was recommending you turned to alternative methods. You sat on the decision; invasive, expensive, potentially unsuccessful, the list of cons grew. But the pro—that a baby would be in your arms—seemed to outshine them all. You’re taking one last test before making the decision; a spur of the moment idea while Marcus took Eli and Grace to Lisa’s and you saw the box sitting there. You almost forget about it as you wash your hands, as liquid runs over the little window. You move to throw it out—then you see it. Two pink lines.

You take 4 more tests to be sure. Each one has a faint second line, barely visible unless under certain light. You don’t hear Marcus call out to you when he gets home, hear him slip off his shoes into the closet or come up to the bedroom, glancing in at you in the attached bathroom.

“Baby, what—” He sees your face, tracks of tears and slack-jawed, then sees the tests—all five, laid out like playing cards. “—Are we—”

You can only nod, and Marcus barrels into you, lifting you to spin around in joy.  You’re both fully crying now, heavy ugly sobs that take some time to recover, and Marcus falls to his knees, running soft hands over your abdomen and pressing a kiss there before murmuring into it.

“Hey, baby. It’s me—your Daddy. We’ve been trying so hard for you—you have a brother and a sister. And the world’s best Mommy. I love you already.”

The first trimester certainly isn’t easy on you. Grace and Eli still don’t know what’s going on, only that Mommy is tired and sick a lot and Daddy can’t keep his hands off her. Marcus was doting before—now he’s downright worshipful. Anything you try to do gets taken from you with a peck and a “I’ll do it, baby.” He holds your hair when you feel your most disgusting, rubs your back and your feet when they start to ache, brings your giant vitamins and your favorite snacks. Sunflowers now appear on the table each morning, Thursdays turned into everydays. He attends every appointment, eagerly sitting in pink vinyl waiting rooms with baby magazines tucked into his arms, chatting with women more pregnant than you about how hard it’s been on you and asking how he can help. He hides his research a bit better; though What to Expect when You’re Expecting has become a coffee table read.

You tell Eli and Grace the day you hear the heartbeat for the first time. You and Marcus could have spent hours in that little exam room, listening to that steady thump, so the technician gave it to you on a CD. You sit Grace and Eli on the couch; Eli seems to know something is happening.

“Okay, you guys know how Mommy’s been feeling sick lately?” Marcus starts, squeezing your hand as Eli and Grace nod. “That’s because she’s carrying a baby in her belly.”

“You mean—” Eli stands from the couch.

“You’re gonna have another little brother or sister,” you reply, and he looks unsurely between you. Grace has a broad smile, but still a bit timid, doesn’t have much to say. “I’m sure you have some questions, so—"

“But what about us?” The question hits you straight to your core, but Marcus fields it.

“What do you mean, bud?” “Are you going to return us now that you’ll have a baby of your own? Where will we go? I didn’t like living with Aunt Lisa—” he’s working himself into a tailspin, Grace looking increasingly more frightened as he continues. Marcus reaches out to the boy, pulling him to his body in a tight hug.

“Never, Eli. You are our kids. All of us—you, Grace, the new baby—all five of us are a family, and nothing can change that.” Eli nods into Marcus’ shoulder, and you open your arms to Grace who comes eagerly to your comfort. “We are the Pikes. You two—” Marcus boops Grace and Eli’s noses until they giggle. “included. Now, aren’t you excited? You’re gonna have a new baby sibling just like Emmie!”

“Emmie said Milo smells,” Eli complains, and the two of you laugh, Marcus’ hand sneaking around your back to your abdomen, holding his entire world in his hands.

Things started to go more smoothly once the first trimester ended. You had more energy, were able to bring snacks to Eli’s soccer game and stare at your laptop for longer than five minutes without a migraine.  Your belly was just starting to show, and Marcus adored it. Every morning he would tell the baby how much he loved it, and every night he would give it a recap of his day as you settled into bed. His hands were never not on your little bump, and you hope the baby knows how loved it is already when Marcus makes you a mini pancake on a Saturday, claiming it was so the baby could have some.

“What do you guys hope it is? A little brother or a little sister?” Both kids chimed in at the same time, offering opposite answers, and Marcus looked to you sheepishly as he finally sat down, breakfast served. You were going to find out the sex of the baby today—had debated back and forth on what you hoped for, mostly settling on healthy.

“If it’s a boy, what should we name it?” Marcus offered, cleaning Grace’s chin with a napkin. Eli contemplated for a moment before answering.

“Hmm…Spiderman! So we can fight crime together.” You stifle a laugh as Marcus rolls his eyes at you.

“Okay—how about you, Grace?” “Big Bird!”

“Okay—Spiderman and Big Bird, those are—some options. What about if it’s a girl?”

“You should return it,” grumbled Eli, and you chuckled, but Grace broke into a toddler-sized scream.

“Big Bird!”

“Alright, we have Big Bird, Spiderman, Big Bird, and—well, no name, I guess. Since she’ll be returned,” Marcus confirmed, and Eli looked smug, digging into his breakfast.

You swear, you’ve never seen a more dejected Eli than when the ultrasound technician informed you all that the baby was, in fact, a girl. His entire body crumpled, and you both expected a tantrum; you were stuck on the table with sticky goo all over you, and Marcus did his best to reassure him it would be okay, to prevent whatever eruption was brewing, but you saw Eli’s face fall into a blank sheet, and knew he would be starting the return paperwork any day. Marcus had led both kids out to the waiting room while you cleaned up, and by the time you were done—several more black and white photos in hand—Eli had drawn a family portrait, a small pink blob with a red “X” through it in the corner.

When you went looking for Marcus later in the day, the house eerily silent while Grace held on to her napping schedule, you found him tucked into bed with Eli. He had retreated to his room upon returning from the doctor, stuffed himself under the covers, and presumably, pouted like he could change the outcome. Marcus was sprawled on top of the sheets, the ball of blankets next to him, speaking quietly as he stared up at the ceiling.

“You know, Eli—now that you’ll have two little sisters, you have the most important job in the whole family.”

“…I do?” A little voice chimed from the blankets.

“Yup. You’re their big brother.”

“That doesn’t feel very important.”

“Oh, well, it is. You get to do all the fun stuff with them. Play in the mud, take them on the swings. You get to protect them when Mommy and I aren’t there.” You’re tucked against the wall, listening out of sight, but you hear the blankets rustle, and Eli’s voice is a little clearer.

“Like you and Mommy protect everyone from bad guys?” “Yeah, kind of. But instead of bad guys, it’ll be boys and mean people at school and scary bugs when they come in the house.”

“I—I guess I can do that.” “I know you can,” Marcus hummed, and you walked away silently, hoping they continue their moment. Within a few minutes, Eli comes bounding down the stairs, Marcus barely on his heels, with a new family drawing—this one with a small blob of a baby in a pink blanket.

“Wow, Eli, what a cool drawing! Who’s this?” you ask.

“That’s the baby in your belly,” he replies sheepishly. “You don’t have to return her anymore.”

“Oh good,” you reply softly, rustling his hair and making eye contact with Marcus, who offers a crooked smile. “I think you guys will be great friends.”

“Only if she stays out of my Lego,” he grumbles, and you agree—the baby will stay out of his Lego, at least until she can crawl.

Things got bad again as you approached your due date; every appendage too swollen to do much, aches and pains restricting you to bed most of the time. When you did stand up, Marcus was right there—half supervising, until he learned what a relief it is when someone lifts a large baby bump from behind, taking some of the weight for a minute, and then you always had a shadow.

You worried over your body—so many changes you had expected, but some you hadn’t. Marcus wouldn’t hear a second of it—calling you his Goddess every opportunity, whispering to his little girl about how beautiful, how strong, how brave her mom was. Despite the long road to get here, you were ready for your baby to be in your arms, for this adventure to be over.

But you suppose you’re never really ready.

When contractions started in the middle of the night, you avoided telling Marcus. You knew he would work himself into an anxious mess, and you needed your strong, devoted husband to help you get through the pain. So you called Lisa, who immediately picked up the kids, excited to become an honorary aunt. You got your bags ready, checked on the nursery one last time—filled with tiny onesies and gadgets and a mountain of diapers, just absorbing the stillness and the last moments where you were still able to protect your little girl from the world. When Marcus awoke, feeling the empty space beside him, he came looking; he found you rocking gently in the baby’s room, hand toying with the mobile over the crib of the solar system, and you met his gaze calmly.

“Marcus—it’s time.”

Before he could work himself up, you told him what you needed—he did well with instruction. He packed the car, adjusted the carseat in place. Helped you down the stairs, taking a break when you squeezed his hand in pain. Got you to the hospital with only minimal cursing at other drivers, got you settled in a room—called your parents and his.

It was the most excruciating pain of your life. Marcus held you through all of it—somehow knowing what you needed before you even asked. He wished he could take it from you somehow, could bear the burden after the nine months you’ve had, but he can’t—he’s, once again, helpless. So he does all he can—he lets you squeeze his hand, not minding any pain, he whispers encouragement in your ear—my beautiful wife, my strong girl, the mother of my children, the love of my life—and soon enough, a small bundle erupted into the world, squalling with lungs like no other, squirming onto your body as the doctors placed her there.

Lucy Anne Pike, named after the sun and her maternal grandmother; Born 10:53 AM, 7 pounds, 11 ounces, 19 inches.

And you both sobbed. Truly sobbed, unable to speak to each other but saying enough without words, through looks and touches and kisses placed gently all over your face. The baby was cleaned up and brought back, wrapped tight in a blanket and placed in your arms as doctors and nurses left you alone with her.

“She—she’s beautiful. Just like her mom,” Marcus whispered, pressing a kiss to your hairline as he kneeled at your side.

“Just like her dad,” you correct, handing the small ball of blankets to him. The baby was tiny, but in Marcus’ arms she cooed and settled, dwarfed in his warm embrace.

“There’s my little girl—it’s me, your daddy,” he tries, tears running down his cheeks as you watch them, awestruck. “We’ve waited so long to meet you, and now you’re here—oh, God. You’re so perfect. We love you so much,” he whispers, and a small hand escapes the bundle, grabbing his thumb tightly in five tiny fingers, and you know—this is what true love, true happiness feels like.

Marcus comes in later with Eli and Grace—a bouquet of sunflowers and a “Welcome Baby” balloon held by each of them as you sit with their new sister. Each of them wear a respective “Big Brother” and “Big Sister” tshirt, and you make a mental note to get a picture of the three of them together as they approach. You can tell Marcus told them to be quiet, to be gentle—both are walking around like the air might shatter. Grace approaches first, giving your legs a big hug as she scrambles onto the bed, and you lower the sleeping baby to show her.

“Lucy, meet your big sister, Grace. Grace, meet Lucy,” you coo, watching as the older girl runs a finger over the baby’s soft cheek.

“Hi Lucy. I’m Grace,” she offers quietly, and you make eye contact with Marcus with a smile. Eli still stands at his side, unsure. “When you come home we’re going to play dolls, okay?”

“She can’t play dolls, she’s a baby,” Eli corrects, finally coming closer. He also climbs onto the bed with you; your three kids surrounding you, Marcus standing to your side and looking down at the family he’s created. “Hi Lucy, I’m Eli. I’m your brother, I guess.” You roll your eyes at Marcus, but he stifles a laugh.

“Eli, would you like to hold her?” He looks between you and Marcus with wide eyes, and when you nod, Marcus gets him set up on one of the hospital chairs, bringing the baby over to him. She’s swaddled in her blanket, and Marcus keeps his hands under her head and bottom, showing Eli how to support her neck but never quite letting go once Eli takes the reigns. He looks down at his new sister, watching as her eyes blink open.

“Listen here, Lucy. Mommy said you can’t touch my Legos, okay? But—” Lucy reaches an arm out of her swaddle, skill not quite perfected, as she looks at her brother with wide eyes. She reaches up and pulls on one of his curls, and you expect him to complain—instead, he giggles, and it feels like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders as he continues to confide in the baby like you and Marcus aren’t there.

“Gracie used to do that to our other Daddy when she was a baby too. We ended up being friends, but she was annoying for a while. Me and Gracie—we have two mommies and two daddies. It’s a long story. But—I’m glad you’re with this Mommy and Daddy. They’re the best.” Lucy looks up in wonder as he speaks, Grace tucked to your side for snuggles as Eli examines his sister. Suddenly, the baby lets out a belch, larger than you thought her small body could produce, and Eli cracks up hysterically, Marcus taking the baby as the rest of you begin to laugh, too.

“She’s funny. I like her! She can stay,” Eli approves, and you shake your head. Somehow, Marcus worms his way into the bed on your other side, holding Lucy tightly. Eli climbs between your legs, and Grace tucks into your shoulder, and the five of you—the Pikes—feel complete.

TAGLIST: @ophelialoveshandsomemen​ @ksd24670​ @rosiefridayrogersunday​ @evelynseventyr​ @ajeff855​ @thewintersoldierswife​ @knowledgefulbutterfly​ @amneris21​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @hellovanessax​ @darling-din @rebel-fanfare​ @tobealostwanderer​ @randomness501​ @farfromjustordinary​ @outlawedmando​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedrostories​ @solemnlyswearss​ @mandocrasis​ @raspberrymama​ @pjkimrn​ @kirsteng42​ @ladykatakuri​ @marydjarin​ @sugarontherims @ajeff855​ @spideysimpossiblegirl​ @seasonschange-butpeopledont​ @imaginecrushes​ @giselatropicana​ @agingerindenial​ @supernaturalgirl​ @captain-jebi​ @lou-la-lou​  @pascalsimp​ @antisocialthat70sshow​ @dragcn-queen​ @sambucky21 @farfromjustordinary​  @fangirl-of-randomness​ @aquilacorvinal​ @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan​

[themand0lorian]

FLUFFTOBER DAY 6-FIREMAN’S CARRY

Love is a Heck of a Drug

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: A new discovery at your previously safe workplace--which has the power to take away super abilities--makes everything crash around you. Who could pick up the pieces if not the leader of the Heroics?

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating:  PG-13

Words: ~1500 (also on AO3)

Tags: Bombs, gunshots, alarms, building collapse, security personnel-reader is a scientist, so sciencey things happen

Notes: Another Flufftober that’s maybe not as fluffy as intended, oops! Also I know the title mentions drugs, but I mean drugs like prescription, not like illegal

This will be part 1 of (?) parts, to be continued during Flufftober--but I won’t say which days to prevent spoilers!

Getting into science was supposed to be easy. In a world full of superpowers—and, by extension, super villains—it felt downright safe. A stiff white labcoat, plastic safety glasses and nitrile gloves, your own little space on the lab’s benchtop. The stuff you worked with; tiny, microscopic cells, solutions meant to emulate the human body—the biggest threat to your life was when you had spilled an unlabeled bottle on your pants. And it turned out to be water.

That is—until your company started developing a drug that would “change the world.”

At first, it was only murmurs. New, stronger fencing placed around the perimeter of the building, a few extra security guards. You were told to stop wearing your logo-emblazoned jackets and tshirts around town; to remove your ID badge before you even left campus. It all felt eerie; like you were keeping some secret from the world. The secret was also kept from the employees; no one except the top executives seemed to have any knowledge of this world-changing drug.

And maybe it should have been kept that way, because the second the CEO announced the new drug—a two-shot process that would permanently remove super abilities—the world turned upside down.

You had to go through metal detectors to get to your desk. Get fingerprinted and ID’d at checkpoints to get into the lab. Protestors picketed outside the gates daily, with signs like “You’re the supervillains,” and “Protect our Heroes.” If the medicine got into the wrong hands, you knew it could do some serious damage to the network you all relied on to be safe. Hell, even in the right hands, the one place you felt safe had been turned upside down.

Of course, things soon turned political. Pundits and politicians debating over its use, its safety. Internet sleuths who dug up past indiscretions, financial and personal, aiming to crumble the company from the top. You did your best to ignore it; come in, do your lab work, leave. You couldn’t exactly let all the other patients who relied on you, who relied on your other, less volatile drugs to survive, suffer. Your logoed swag was tucked away in your closet, but you still did what you had to do—still fought for their survival.

You didn’t realize you would have to fight for your own.

It started like any other day. Go in, metal detector beeps. Jim, the security guard who works this shift checks your bag, clears it; you walk off with a thanks and wave to your desk. Put your stuff at your desk, maybe grab a coffee from the shitty little machine if the day wasn’t busy (it usually was). After checking emails and plotting overnight data, donning your labcoat and heading into the lab; another scan of your badge, a security guard—George, who hated his job--taking your fingerprints. Once passed, you finally felt at ease, settling into whatever labwork you had for the day. Mixing, counting, moving, feeding—the cells were your own millions of babies, and you did what you had to do to keep them alive.

Then, the fire alarm went off; loud and blaring, strobe lights blinking as an automated voice requested you exited the building. You quickly finished your tasks, tucking your babies safely away until you could come back to them; several of your coworkers had already turned for the door, making their way past George and into the stairwell before you could clean up. You were on your last flask when suddenly—the voice changed. The automated voice instead instructed you to shelter in place; stay where you were until emergency personnel found their way to you. You quickly ducked under the lab bench, leaving the open flask as terror overtook you—as you tried to calm your racing heart. Whoever had come in wouldn’t find you. They’d have to get past Jim and George, have to pass security and metal detectors, have to ID for entry--

Without warning, the screeching alarm stopped, but the lights remained strobing. Suddenly, three loud pops wrang out; you couldn’t tell where they were coming from but you were sure it was gunshots. Muffled yelling followed as you held your breath, trying to fade into the bench. Another pop, this time followed by shattering glass. Were you in danger? Should you run? Had they shot the culture you had left on the lab bench and ruined your experiment? It was a selfish thought, but your work was, plainly, important, too important to be lost like this. It had already been left out too long, which you worried may affect the results. Is this really what you should be thinking right now?

The thought quickly left your mind when it felt like the world opened up beneath you. There was a roar, like the loudest clap of thunder right in your ears, and you tried to cover them, resting your arms on your knees; but your knees were out from under you, and you were falling—falling, falling, falling—until you hit the ground with a thud, head snapping back to hit a jagged piece of concrete. Then, nothing.

The next thing you remember is strong arms. Soft brown eyes looking to you in concern. You blinked in and out of consciousness. The trickle of something down your forehead. An arm under your legs, one supporting your back, like a fireman’s carry. And a soft, honeyed voice.

“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

You’re in a hospital when you come to again. Clinical and sterile, you first thought you had fallen asleep in the lab—then you see your bloodied labcoat, name embroidered across the pocket, draped on a chair to your side, and you remember—the lab is gone. And next to the labcoat sits a man you’ve never seen before. He startles to attention when you turn to face him.

“Hi—uh, hi,” he spits out awkwardly. “I—I just wanted to see if you remembered anything that happened today?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure my office collapsed,” you sigh. “Oh, God—what about Jim? And George? And Mel and Sarah, are they okay? And Limmy, the cook in the cafeteria? Is she—oh, God.” As you work yourself into a panic, the machines around you start beeping rapidly. The unknown man, with somehow familiar brown eyes, takes your hand in his; it almost tingles, but he squeezes it before resting it on top of yours, saying your name with a sigh.

“My name is Marcus Moreno. I’m the leader of the Heroics.” You stare at him blankly, pretty sure you had seen him on TV before, but unsure why he was in your hospital room. He;s handsome, your brain supplies, but you push it out again when he continues. “Your office was attacked today. An unknown number of villains breeched the security, planting bombs throughout the building and detonating them. You were sheltered under a lab bench when the building collapsed, but took a pretty hard fall on the way down.” You blink at him, struggling to process the words, despite the gentle way he delivered them.

“Did—did anyone—”

“We’re not sure who’s survived at this point,” he says softly. “The other heroics were searching the wreckage, but I found you first.” You nod, tears gathering in your lashes before rolling down your cheeks.

“Why would someone do this?” you whisper, mostly to yourself.

“We think it’s because of Dehero.” Of course, the new drug. Changing your world, just as much as any heroic’s. You pull your hand from Marcus’, vomit rising in your throat that never quite surfaces, but you gag nonetheless. He continues.

“I know this is a lot. But it’s not safe for you here. You’ve been cleared by the doctors for discharge—we need to take you to a safehouse. As soon as possible.”

“Me? Why me?” Marcus tilts his head to look at you, an emotion you can’t quite place behind his eyes.

“As one of the only assumed survivors, we can’t guarantee that they won’t come back to—” he clears his throat “—finish what they started.”

“So you’re going to leave me in a safehouse alone?!” you ask incredulously, fear and panic and shock making your machines beep rapidly again. Marcus’ hand finds yours, covering it with his warm palm, grounding you again.

“No. I’ll be with you until we find whoever is behind this.” You look into his eyes; he’s sporting thick-rimmed glasses, more pencil pusher than superhero, but he has an air about him that tells you to trust him. In a world where everything you know has just been shattered, you don’t have much choice.

“Okay, Marcus. Let’s go.”

TAGS: @ophelialoveshandsomemen​ @ksd24670​ @rosiefridayrogersunday​ @evelynseventyr​ @ajeff855​ @thewintersoldierswife​ @knowledgefulbutterfly​ @amneris21​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @hellovanessax​ @darling-din @rebel-fanfare​ @tobealostwanderer​ @randomness501​ @farfromjustordinary​ @outlawedmando​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedrostories​ @solemnlyswearss​ @mandocrasis​ @raspberrymama​ @pjkimrn​ @kirsteng42​ @ladykatakuri​ @marydjarin​ @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan​ @notagamersdey​ 

[themand0lorian]

FLUFFTOBER DAY 29-UP AGAINST THE WALL KISS

Summary: Working at Statesman keeps life interesting.

Pairing: Jack Daniels x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating:  G

Words: ~600 (AO3)

Tags: smooching

Notes: A shortie as we begin to wrap up Flufftober!

Working for Statesman wasn’t always easy, but it did keep life interesting. This week you were after the leader of a crime ring. The man had been stealing priceless artefacts; gems, fossils, ancient texts. No one knew how he was doing it, but Statesman knew he was doing it. They just needed to catch him in the act.

So when murmurs went out about an auction, meant for only the wealthiest of couples and held at the man’s estate, an invitation was procured. You and Jack were asked to attend, undercover; a newly married couple. Jack, known instead as John Lawson, was trying to surprise is wife—the new Mrs. Lawson, you—with a wedding gift; specifically, a necklace worn by Marie Antoinette, wanting the precious jewels for his “new queen.”

That’s how you ended up draped over his arm all night; laughing like a giddy school girl over his jokes, draped in fine diamonds and silks. None of it was you; except, perhaps, the loving looks you gave your new husband. It was hard to deny your attraction to the cowboy, especially all glammed up for a gala of this caliber. Yes, being in love with Jack was easy—whether it was real or fake, that was the difficult part.

The other difficult part came when the auction started; the Marie Antoinette necklace was up toward the end, but before the thief could start the bidding, an official looking guard came up to his ear, murmuring something that caused him to look directly at you and Jack. Both your hackles immediately went up, but Jack knew how to play it cool.

“Let’s go get a drink, darlin’.” You immediately agree, letting Jack lead you by the hand out of the auction room and to the bar. More and more guards begin to assemble, speaking to each other in hushed tones. As you walk down the main hall, you manage to get close enough to Jack to whisper in his ear.

“Jack—”

“I know, darlin’.” You can hear more guards beginning to follow you, and Jack seems to do the opposite of what you expect; he stops you in the middle of the hallway, your back against the wall as he leans in close.

“Forgive me for this, darlin,’” his lips dance over your ear; his breath smells like whiskey and tobacco, his warm, broad hands frame your hips—

Then he’s kissing you, right there against the wall, like nothing else matters. His lips move over yours gently but passionately; connecting and disconnecting with each stutter of your heart. He moves his lips from yours to your jaw, then down your neck, each touch electrifying you as he fits himself perfectly in the space between your shoulder. Your arms quickly encircle his head, fingers carded through his hair as you lean into him when a few guards come into your view. They mumble something to each other, and you slyly watch as they walk away; Jack seems to realize it too, pulling back when the coast is clear. His eyes are alight with something you can’t place, lips kiss-swollen and pink.

“I—I’m sorry, I—"

“Do it again.” You cut him off confidently; it takes a moment for your words to register, the threat having past.

“What?”

“Kiss me, Jack.” When the words make it through the smog of his brain, he smirks; letting you pull him back to you with a smile to connect your lips again. He only breaks the touch to murmur into them.

“Anything for my Queen.”

TAGS: @ophelialoveshandsomemen @ksd24670 @rosiefridayrogersunday @evelynseventyr @ajeff855 @thewintersoldierswife @knowledgefulbutterfly @amneris21 @sarahjkl82-blog @hellovanessax  @rebel-fanfare @tobealostwanderer @randomness501 @farfromjustordinary @outlawedmando @agirllovespancakes @pedrostories @solemnlyswearss @mandocrasis @raspberrymama @pjkimrn @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @marydjarin @eri16​@curiouskeyboard@frankiemoraleswifexo​ @littlemisspascal​

[themand0lorian]

FLUFFTOBER DAY 5-AMNESIA

The Pearl

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: A missed gunshot, a woman without her memory, and a threat all culminate in the city streets.

Pairing: Jack Daniels x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating:  PG-13

Words: ~3500 (AO3)

Tags: gunshots, canon typical violence, jack being suggestive, amnesia fic

Notes: Another Flufftober that’s maybe not as fluffy as intended, but it’s also been in my drafts a long time! If anything this gets me to post some of the works I’m not as happy with. 

This will be part 1 of (?) parts, to be continued during Flufftober--but I won’t say which days to prevent spoilers!

Summer has finally broken into blissful chilly autumn in New York City, so you decide to take the long way home, excited to partake in one of your favorite past times; people watching in the concrete jungle. New York tended to bring out the best and brightest, but also the weirdest, and you had an ongoing competition with yourself to find the most out-there personality you could each time you went out, so today was no exception. The gentle breeze hit your face as you stepped out of an office building, turning to go with the flow of the crowd further into the Financial District as you felt the sun kiss your cheeks.

You saw a woman dressed fully in cheetah print cross the street, as well as an elderly man wearing a tank top and overalls which were covered in a suspicious red liquid you decided not to question, but for the most part, your walk was filled with grey, stuffy suits and jabbering on cell phones about the latest numbers and figures. When you stopped to cross the street and head toward the subway, pressing the crosswalk signal, your eyes glanced across the sea of cars to the pedestrians waiting on the other side.

Standing out among the crowd was a man who looked straight out of a story book; blue Levi jeans, shiny, thick belt buckle, and brown leather cowboy boots caught your eye first, followed by a thick mustache and, to top it off, a cowboy hat. You smirked to yourself, declaring this man the winner for ridiculous outfits for the day, glancing to his face to see his yellowish aviators looking directly back at you, mustache also quirked up to a grin as he tilted his hat to you in greeting. Embarrassed at being caught, you quickly looked away, relief flooding you as you noticed pedestrians starting to move into the crosswalk, following without a second glance as you tried to blend into the crowd.

The groups of people were bustling past each other, each determined to be on their way, and you kept your gaze on the crosshatched lines as you walked. Your head jumped up when a gentle hand met your elbow, your eyes meeting those yellow aviators as the cowboy tipped his hat at you, offering a broad grin, and then nothing.

Whiskey smirked at the woman when he caught her shamelessly checking him out, tipping his hat and hoping to maybe force some line on her after she crossed. He was fresh back from a mission, some small-time petty crimes gig while the others did the real work, and he needed to blow off some steam from his own frustrations at being sidelined. He was too focused on her body in that little sundress, on trying to make a move to notice the car parked across the street with darkened windows, the metal of a firearm peeking in his direction, that when the sound of a gunshot reached his ears, he was almost surprised. He caught her body into his, the force of the shot pushing her into him, limp and lifeless as crimson blood trickled from her temple.

Bystanders were screaming in panic, cell phones to their ears as several other people approached her limp form. The darkened car sped away, but Whiskey’s eyes were directly on the girl; he immediately dropped to his knees with her, laying her on the pavement. It didn’t seem like a direct hit, but there was no exit wound, and he fumbled with her before taking in her heaving chest. Her eyes lulled in and out as he ordered the other bystanders back, horns honking in the background from cars that hadn’t witnessed the accident.

“Hiya sweetpea, my name’s Jack. I’m gonna need you to stay with me, okay?” he cooed, looking her over quickly before lifting her body from the street to carry her onto the sidewalk. Her head lulled back and forth in his arms, eyes glazed but somewhat aware, as blood ran down her head. When her eyes started to roll back, he focused her attention again. “Can you tell me your name?”

She let out a small whimper before barely forming her name on her lips, Jack repeating it back. “Okay, sweetpea. I need you to stay with me now, ya hear? You—someone shot you, we need to wait for emergency—shit,” he cursed when she slipped into unconsciousness again, this time life draining from her frame. “C’mon sweetpea, don’t do this, not here,” he begs, watching as whatever life she had left seemed to leave her body. Without thinking, he reached into his back pocket, pulling out the Alpha-Gel pack and placing it over her eyes before injecting the two serums, allowing it to inflate before discarding the injectors and picking up her lifeless form again.

Everything was black, and everything hurt, but somehow, you could still pick up voices in the afterlife, snippets of conversations between a man and a woman.

“Really, Jack? Alpha-Gel?” “What was I gonna do, Ginge, let ‘er die in my arms?” “If this is some ploy to get in her pants I swear—”

“Ginger! No. Someone shot her, and they were clearly aimin’ for me. I couldn’t do nothing.”

“And how exactly are you going to explain all this to her? A civilian?”

Your eyes finally peeled open with a groan; you were dead, you had to be. You looked like you were in some kind of sci-fi movie, panic rising as you took in your surroundings. All stark white, almost sterile, but definitely not a hospital. The machines looked nothing like anything you had ever seen before, screens covering every inch of every wall and giant vats you were afraid to investigate. You groaned when you attempted to move your arm and pinch yourself, pain radiating from every limb, and suddenly, the voices in your head manifested in front of you.

“Hey there, sweetpea. Glad you could join us!” said a cheery voice as you winced into the bright light. A full-on cowboy, southern drawl and all was standing in front of you, looking at you expectantly. You let out a sardonic chuckle.

“I’m dead. I have to be dead. I’m dead and God is…the Naked Cowboy?” you groaned, trying to rationalize with yourself with the infamous NYC personality, despite the cowboy in front of you wearing far more layers than the original would.

“Now sweetheart, I ain’t no god, but I could have you screamin’ his name,” he chuckles suggestively, accent thick. You fight a physical gag at his response, but don’t get a word in before someone else is speaking.

“No, honey, you’re not dead,” a feminine voice rounded your bedside, rolling her eyes at the man. A kindly looking woman with glasses spoke to you gently. “And don’t call him God, he has enough of a complex already. Do you remember what happened?”

“No,” you winced again as you tried to move, squirm away from the pain jabbing your side. Everything felt fuzzy, every part of your life the last few years just a little off-kilter.

“You were shot in a drive-by shooting, but Jack here saved your life. You’re gonna be a little off for a while but the damage to your brain was reversed,” she coos to you, checking some other information on the screens in front of you. She shows you a traffic camera video, and you see what looks like yourself crossing the street, stopping in front of Jack in the middle of the crosswalk before falling into his arms, limp, but it feels fake. You’re watching your own death but it could be a body double, or some mistake, but then you see a familiar cowboy hat catch you, bringing you to the ground and saving your life, and you look to your side to see the same cowboy hat facing the ground sheepishly. Your hand finds a bandage at your temple, proving you were the one in the video, but it still feels surreal.

“Why don’t I remember?” you groaned as the woman stopped the video. She looks concerned, and Jack reflects her sentiments, the two sharing a look. “What?”

“Well, usually agen—ahem, patients—have some short-term memory loss. But the memories come back when you witness the traumatic event again. But it seems—it seems like that didn’t happen here?” she questions. Jack is looking at you with large puppy-dog eyes as you look between them.

“What? No. I mean, I watched the video but it feels like the last few years of my life have just been erased. I don’t know how I got here or what’s happening,” you ramble. The woman nods her head to the side, and Jack follows her to a desk in the corner of the room.

“Ginger, why can’t she remember anything?” he sounds almost pleading.

“I don’t know, Jack. The Alpha-Gel isn’t perfect. Maybe something else, something else could trigger her. You could take her back to that corner, see if she needs the physical memory?”

“Ginge, she’s in no shape—”

“You know I can hear you,” you gripe, rolling your eyes. “Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Jack strides up to your bed again, focusing in on your eyes as he held out his hand in greeting.

“My name is Jack Daniels. You were in an accident, ‘ere, sweetpea. I think ya took a bullet meant for me, see, I’m a secret agent for an independent intelligence agency called Statesman, located here in New York, and I used one of our kits on you to heal you. You lost your memory ‘cause ‘a me, sweetpea, and I’m sorry about that, but don’t you worry, we’ll get it back,” he drawls. You roll your eyes, limply shaking his hand.

“Okay, so I am dead. A secret agent? And ‘Jack Daniels?’ Really?” you reply sarcastically, looking him up and down.

“Really,” he says more seriously, eyes imploring you to believe him. “You ain’t dead yet, sweetpea. I wasn’t gonna let that happen to a beautiful woman like yourself.” Ginger smacks him in the chest and scolds him.

“Whiskey!”

Rolled eyes are all you reply, nose crinkled while falling back into bed as Ginger laughs. Suddenly another man, older than Whiskey bursts into the double doors at the side of your bed. He seems to regard you a moment before nodding tensely to Jack, the two exiting out the doors again to chat. You see as Jack exits that he has a lasso tied around his belt loop, and if it was possible, roll your eyes even harder.

“Jack, if this is some plot to get back in Statesman’s good graces…”

“Champ, ‘ya know it ain’t about that,” Jack pleads, his own name besmirched after his falter with the Kingsman. Luckily, he had come to his senses after Ginger revived him—with some encouragement from her, who literally smacked some sense in him—allowing Eggsy and Harry to gather the antidote and save the addicts before it was too late. Guilt gnawing at him, he had admitted what he planned to Champ, who took it in stride, allowing him to remain in his role in a reduced capacity until he earns his trust back. “I know I shouldn’t’a used the Alpha-Gel. But what was I gonna do? That bullet was meant for me. It was Deathbrook—I know it was. I couldn’t very well let the girl die on the street.”

“No, you coulda, Whiskey. That’s the problem,” Champ retorts, and Whiskey rolls his eyes. “You’re being paranoid. Deathbrook is dead! I swear, you see any pretty girl and—”

“Well, she saw the video of the shooting, Champ, and her memory didn’t come back. So now what?” Jack interrupts, unwilling to hear the end of Champ’s sentence.

“You got us into this mess, Whiskey, you get us out,” Champ almost threatens, walking away into the elevator. It was clear there was no room for discussion, so Jack awkwardly made his way back into the medical center. You and Ginger are chatting like old friends, but your face falls when Jack reenters.

“Well, sweetpea, I guess I oughta take ya home. Do ya remember where ya live?” he asks softly, before realizing his own words as your face drops. “No funny business, I’m sorry if I freaked ya out before, kinda just my default state,” he jokes.

“No, it’s not that. I…I don’t remember where I live,” you manage to spit out. Jack and Ginger exchange a look, Ginger opening her mouth to speak, but Jack cuts her off immediately.

“Alright, sweetpea. I’ll tell ya what. Why don’t ya come stay with me for a bit until ya heal up, and then we’ll take ya back to the street of the accident, and see what happens,” he offers. Ginger looks almost shocked, but when you look to her for guidance, inherently trusting her more than the playboy in dress up in front of you, she gives you a small nod.

“Alright, Jack. But no more ‘sweetpea,’” you counter, trying to appear confident. “And drop the fake accent.”

“What fake accent?” he chuckles as he responds, approaching the bed to help you make your way onto your feet. When you stand, Jack’s arms steady you, and you lean into the comfort despite yourself. If you’re dead, you might as well enjoy it. You reach for the pain at your side, finding a bent and scratched ID card in the pocket of your dress, unfurling it as you look it over. It seems to be for some kind of workplace, but you don’t recognize it, and you hand it to Jack.

“This place is right down the street from where I found ya. Looks like you were a visitor there today,” he nods, handing the card to Ginger. She quickly walks away with it, punching information into her computers as you and Jack follow behind. Your legs feel like liquid instead of bone, and they almost give out, until Jack places a reassuring hand on your waist to straighten you, his other hand gripping yours tightly. “Careful now, Ginger ‘ere had to put ya back together from the ground up.” You decide not to question his statement, chalking it up to the same magic that fixed your head wound, when Ginger speaks again.

“Okay, I contacted this company. You were there today for an interview, so they didn’t have any of your information,” she explains. “Looks like all we can hope for is that you start remembering, which, hopefully, you will.”

“And if I don’t?” you ask sheepishly. Jack and Ginger both seem tense, but it’s Ginger who eventually answers.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

After a few more tests, Ginger clears you to leave with Jack, and you blindly follow the man out of the medical bay and into what looks like the lobby of a corporate building. You know you shouldn’t trust strangers like this, but you’re still pretty sure this is a dream—and one you don’t seem able to wake up from. Jack’s drawl rouses you from your thoughts.

“Whattaya say we go back to where I found ya? See if you had a bag or somethin’ with you.”

“You didn’t notice if I had a bag?” you ask quizzically.

“I—uh. Wasn’t quite lookin’ at your bags, sweet—” he clears his throat, correcting himself with your name. You roll your eyes, but gesture for him to lead the way, and he does. The two of you walk together down the busy street, you fighting to keep up with him despite the hoards of people just calling off work and your jellied legs which don’t seem to function exactly as you remember. When you falter over a crack in the sidewalk, Jack is there with a steady arm, which you grab readily, and the two of you walk arm in arm the rest of the way to the street corner. It looks vaguely familiar, but you’re not sure if it’s from Ginger’s video or actually a memory.

“Well this is it. Corner o’ Pearl and Broad.” He looks around as you do the same, taking in the bustle of the city; something tickles at the base of your skull, but Jack pulls away, and the memory is lost as your eyes follow him. He picks up a tattered black purse, shoved against the storefront to your side. “Look like yours?”

“I mean it could be,” you shrug. Jack opens the purse to find a small notebook with papers crammed in it, and not much else.

“Looks like it’s been emptied.” You twist your face, taking the notebook from him to leaf through the pages. You’re pretty sure it’s your handwriting, but the words mean nothing to you. Jack picks up a folded sheet of paper when it flutters out, reading your name off the top.

“Looks like your resume. Here,” he shows you, and you lean into him. You read it over together quickly—currently unemployed, a journalist of some kind. You remember going to college but not graduating, remember writing on a laptop but not publishing. A few gears shift into place, but not enough to go on. “You’re quite accomplished.”

“Apparently so,” you sigh, tucking the paper away. “Wish I remembered why.”

“Nothin’?” You shake your head solemnly, taking in the high-rise buildings again with a sigh. When you look back to the cowboy, he has his arm offered out to you. “Well c’mon then, little pearl. Let’s get you to restin’, and we can come back in a few days.” You look between his crooked arm and his face, shielded by the cowboy hat; without any other option, you intertwine your arms, and he smiles brightly.

You think Jack’s walking you back to Statesman, but when he turns right instead of left, he guides you instead to multistory condos, tipping his hat to the doorman before making his way to an elevator.

“Statesmen put me up in this joint when they had me move up here. Should have plenty of room to stretch your legs, Pearl.”

“Why are you calling me that? I remember my name.” Jack looks a little sheepish, but continues.

“That’s where I found ya’—corner of Broad and Pearl. Is that okay? I can—”

“I suppose it’s better than Broad,” you joke, and you’re rewarded with his hearty and full laugh as he leads you out of the elevator and down a nondescript hallway. When he unlocks the door, you take in the space—mostly white and stark, little personalization other than a framed photo on the mantle and a few notable cowboy accents. As Jack places his things in the kitchen, you make your way to the photo—a beautiful young woman stares back at you, clearly pregnant and glowing with a broad smile. You hold the picture up to Jack.

“The Missus?”

“Uh—no,” he replies quickly, taking the photo from your hands to place it gently back on the shelf. “Not anymore.” He runs a finger over the frame before turning to you, and seeming to turn his southern charm back on.

“Guest room’s right over here, Pearl. Make yourself comfortable. You need to be gettin’ plenty of rest so we can try your memory again in a few days. Bathroom’s attached, kitchen, well, you saw already. But you just let ol’ Jack know if you need anything; don’t want you liftin’ even one of ‘em pretty fingers.” You roll your eyes, still somewhat convinced you’re in Heaven or Hell or some dreamlike trance, but settle on the fluffy white bed appropriately. Jack moves to leave, but before he can, you grab his arm one more time, squeezing his bicep.

“Thank you, Jack. For everything,” you tell him sincerely. He nods in return, a soft smile across his face, and you can hear his phone ringing in the kitchen where he left it. He excuses himself to pick up the call, leaving you in the guest room to get settled as you hear him answer the phone and put it on speaker as he moves around the kitchen. A robotic voice fills the air, and you hear him pause his activity.

“The world may be your oyster, Daniels—but I’ll be getting the Pearl.”

TAGS: @ophelialoveshandsomemen @ksd24670 @rosiefridayrogersunday @evelynseventyr @ajeff855 @thewintersoldierswife @knowledgefulbutterfly @amneris21 @sarahjkl82-blog @hellovanessax @darling-din @rebel-fanfare​ @tobealostwanderer @randomness501 @farfromjustordinary​ @outlawedmando​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedrostories​ @solemnlyswearss​ @mandocrasis​ @raspberrymama​ @pjkimrn​ @kirsteng42​ @ladykatakuri​ @marydjarin​

[themand0lorian]

FLUFFTOBER DAY 2-SNEAKING OUT TOGETHER

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: Marcus saves you from an unfortunate party.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x GN!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating:  PG

Words: ~900 (AO3)

Tags: MLMs, alcohol mention, really nothing beyond the prompt

Notes: A shortie for today!

You thought you were showing up to a birthday party. You expected candles, and wine, and maybe an oversweetened supermarket birthday cake. To mingle with people you barely knew, and then make a quiet exit as soon as possible.

What you hadn’t expected was an ambush.

It was, in fact, not a birthday party at all—Amy, the host and your current least favorite coworker, was touting some new “all natural” cleaning products, essential oils, wax melters—and she wanted you, and her other guests, to buy them from her. What you thought was a casual party was actually a set up for her “Boss Babe” empire, or so she called it, and you fought a hard roll of your eyes every time she claimed one of her oils could cure clear your skin or make your immune system better than actual medicine.

You had held out for the most part, slinking to back corners when the time came to cough up money, but you knew Amy had her sights on you, and your death grip on your wine glass reflected that. Despite it, you still almost dropped the crystal when someone said your name behind you.

“Too bad our perps don’t use this stuff, would make your job a whole lot easier.” You startle and look behind you; Marcus Pike, in all his after-work glory, stands with a matching wine glass and broad smile.

“You’re telling me,” you murmur once you recover. You should have guessed he would be here, he worked more directly with Amy than you did. You were a crime scene analyst, which unfortunately, meant you didn’t run into the Art Department too often—that also meant you were left to pine after the handsome, friendly, perfect man from afar. You didn’t think he knew who you were until now, but you want to keep him near you; to keep looking at the way his sleeves are rolled up his arms, how the wine glass dwarfs in his fingers. “The strongest ingredient in that spray is tea tree oil—that wouldn’t even disinfect a doorknob.” Marcus barks a loud laugh, faking a cough when a few other party goers shoot him a look. Amy glares at him, but continues on her tirade about “green cleaning” to the person in front of her.

“So I shouldn’t have bought that All-In-One spray then?” You look at him wide-eyed.

“Please tell me you didn’t—” “I’m kidding,” he reassures. “I hate this stuff. I thought we were celebrating the end of our case.”

“I thought it was her birthday,” you admit sheepishly. Marcus places his wine glass on the table next to him, leaning in close to whisper in your ear.

“Wanna get out of here? Celebrate on our own?” You’re frozen in place, the feeling of his breath ghosting over your ear almost paralyzing.

“What—what are we celebrating?” you stutter, watching as Marcus takes your wine glass from your hand and places it next to his. His hand returns to yours, clasping it in his tightly as he looks to your face for reassurance.

“We’ll find something.” You squeeze his hand in response.

“Lead the way.”

Marcus leads you through the crowds of people; stepping out of the front door, the fresh air hits you like a brick wall; he still doesn’t release your hand.

“God, I’ve never been more thankful for fresh air,” you murmur, taking a deep breath of the unscented, unoiled air, and Marcus laughs fully, but continues to guide you down the street. The two of you walk down the empty sidewalk; just late enough that the sun has set, but early enough that the barhoppers weren’t out yet, his grip on your hand steady. As you chat, he makes an abrupt turn, and you follow, the sidewalk turning to some kind of wooden dock under your feet. He comes to a stop at the apex, placing you right in the corner of the V-shaped planks so you can look out on the overlook.

You’re not sure where he led you, but its beyond beautiful. Fairy lights twinkle overhead, reflecting in the still water below. Most of the pond is covered in giant lily pads, bigger than your head, with small pink flowers in the center. The air feels fresh and clean, and you two are the only ones around—a calming stillness over you both, only broken by the simmering feelings occurring between you.

“If Amy sold this in a scent, maybe I would have bought it,” you remark, still in awe, and Marcus chuckles, moving next to you. He rests a hand on your hip, bringing your side closer to him as he looks over the water.

“She can’t bottle this,” he murmurs, eyes meeting yours and letting you know—he meant more than the smell. It was the feeling, the lightness that was leading to something new, the tension just below the lily pads to keep them afloat. You do your best to break whatever’s brewing between you, still unsure.

“Have you found something to celebrate, Agent Pike?” He smiles crookedly, the hand which grasped the railing of the dock coming to cradle your face. You hold his eye contact with a small smile, trying to beg for more with your eyes alone.

“Yes—I think I have.”

TAGS: @ophelialoveshandsomemen​ @ksd24670​ @rosiefridayrogersunday​ @evelynseventyr​ @ajeff855​ @thewintersoldierswife​ @knowledgefulbutterfly​ @amneris21​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @hellovanessax​ @darling-din @rebel-fanfare​ @tobealostwanderer​ @randomness501​ @farfromjustordinary​ @outlawedmando​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedrostories​ @solemnlyswearss​ @mandocrasis​ @raspberrymama​ @pjkimrn​ @kirsteng42​ @ladykatakuri​ @marydjarin​

[themand0lorian]

FLUFFTOBER DAY 20-”I THOUGHT I LOST YOU”

THE PEARL-PART 3

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: Things become clearer than ever for Jack and his Pearl.

Pairing: Jack Daniels x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating:  PG-13

Words: ~3000 (AO3)

Tags: canon typical violence, reader is abducted/restrained/injured, happy ending

Notes: This is the final part of this story! I’m not thrilled with it, but part of my motivation for doing this is to force myself to post things I don’t think are perfect. I hope you enjoyed Jack and Pearl!

When Jack wakes, he reads the messages once, twice. Three times. Seven times. He grips the phone so harshly he thinks he might break it, crush it between his palm like the messages have crushed his chest in anxiety. But the anxiety quickly turns to steely resolve, Jack holstering his weapons under his sport coat and striding quickly out of his bedroom to find you in the kitchen making breakfast, eagle shirt on full display as you scramble the eggs with your back to him.

“Pearl, I’m goin’ into work today—I need you to do somethin’ for me.” You hum in acknowledgement, pouring the eggs into the pan as they sizzle. Jack hasn’t been back to work, hasn’t left your side since you essentially moved in with him—part of you knew this was bound to happen soon. You’re startled when he grabs your shoulders, turning you toward him and leaning you against the counter while turning off the burner. You look at him in confusion, but you’re met with a stern look. “Listen, Pearl. I’m serious here—I need you to stay here in the condo all day, okay? Don’t answer the door, don’t go out on the balcony. Just—just stay here, inside, okay?” You nod, slightly alarmed at his serious tone. One of his hands moves from your shoulder to your cheek, running a calloused thumb over it. “Please, Pearl—I need you to say it.”

“I—I’ll stay here, Jack. I promise.” He nods, and for a moment, you think he may press a kiss to your forehead; the moment passes quickly, Jack moving to the door in a flurry of activity. He’s almost at the threshold, grabbing his hat from its hook when you speak again. “Hey Jack?”

“Yeah, Pearl?”

“Be safe. For me.” He nods, placing the hat on his head as he does, and he’s out the door.

The day is quiet without Jack—you don’t have much to do, and you take his instruction seriously—you don’t leave. You go through his bookshelf for the fifth time, smiling when you see the photo album—the spine labeled “Daniels” now—among the titles, speaking over your shoulder to the woman’s picture.

“You’re back on the shelf now, where you belong,” you hum. “He misses you a lot. Probably blames himself—I can practically hear you telling him it’s not his fault,” you joke. You don’t know the woman—don’t even know her name, know anything about her besides what Jack has shared, but she feels like a friend. You’re so caught up in your one-sided conversation, you don’t hear the lock on the door slide to the open position. Don’t hear the door open just enough, don’t hear the light patter of footsteps. Don’t hear the cloth bag placed over your head until it’s in place in front of you. You struggle wildly, screaming and squirming, but strong arms hold you to a rough chest; then, the sound of glass shattering, a sharp pain on the crown of your head, and nothingness.

Jack makes it up to Larson’s office easily enough. That same receptionist is at the front desk, and with one half-hearted “Could you direct me to his office, sweetpea?” he’s walked among cubicles and through darkened hallways to a tucked away office. The receptionist told him most of the company was at some sort of teambuilding event, making his job even easier; he quickly picks the lock of the office he was directed to, opening it to find a mostly mundane space. A wooden desk, large windows over the city blocked by awards and drawn curtains. He doesn’t turn on the lights; the maker of a spy camera is likely to have his office bugged, so he pulls his Stetson even further over his eyes, thumbing through papers and calendars. He sees your name, your appointment with the man marked with a star that, for some reason, makes Jack’s hair stand on end. Overall, there’s nothing really of note—a few trinkets here and there, a barcart built into the wall.

Jack meanders over, perusing the liquor selection—crystalline glasses, a bottle of Statesman reserve unopened in the center. Pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket, Jack picks up the bottle—interested in the year, but frustrated that he didn’t find anything, that you’re still potentially in danger, that he got you involved in all this to begin with. When the weight of the bottle fully rests in his hand, he hears mechanics whir; within moments, the built in barcart and shelves seem to rotate in on themselves, revealing several things. On one side, a picture of Tequila—the agent, not the drink—with a red “x” overtop. Underneath, a copy of an official Statesman report from a mission. Jack’s eyes flit over it, reading a few words—Agent Tequila, confrontation in warehouse, technology recovered—then words that turn his blood to ice. Larson Deathbrook has been terminated.

His eyes quickly dart to the rest of the items the bottle revealed; technical plans for the camera he heard about from the receptionist, a map of Statesman headquarters. Under a stack of papers, a typed-up draft of an article that only catches his eye because your name is written as the author. Clipped to the top is a photo of you—a red circle drawn around it.

Jack’s out of the office in an instant, sprinting down abandoned hallways and past the rebuffed receptionist to the city streets. The article is still in his hands as he sprints back to his place, desperate to find you safely tucked into the couch reading, or watching a crime documentary, or cooking in his kitchen in that eagle shirt. He finds the door open, and he knows—deep down, he knows. But it doesn’t stop him from running through the house, calling out variations of your name and “Pearl” until he comes to the living room; the picture of his sweetheart is smashed on the floor, reddish at the edges of the shards of glass. Jack falls to his knees in the mess, pulling the freed polaroid from the frame to stare at it for a second. He almost misses the red lettering scrawled across the windows you always loved to look out.

The Pearl is mine –DB

Jack doesn’t have time to wallow, to blame himself, despite the fact that his brain provides it in droves. You did this to her. You left her here and she paid the price, just like your wife. Everyone you love will die—you’re not man enough to save them. He has no idea where to start, pacing around the kitchen island as he tries to form a plan; one hand pinching the polaroid, the other gripping the printed article so tightly he almost forgets he has it, but he lays them both out on the table, figuring it’s the only solid lead he has.

He reads the article quickly; more quickly than he wants to. It strikes him how beautifully written it is, how your words practically jump off the page. But the content is the most striking—it’s a scathing review of Deathbrook’s technology, specifically the pinpoint camera. How easily it will be exploited by criminals, how the government would no doubt use it to their advantage. How evil its inventor must be. Suddenly, things become clearer to Whiskey—he was never the intended target of that bullet. You were.

With newfound passion, Jack picks up the photo of his wife, pressing his lips to it gently. Then, the photo of you—doing the same before slipping both into his jacket pocket.

When you awaken with a jolt, you almost think you were shot in the head again; but somehow, this feels worse than before, no Alpha Gel to take away the pain. As you come back to yourself, you notice a few things—your hands are tied behind you, your legs to a rickety wooden chair. Your head throbs, and you think there’s blood dripping down your temple that you really want to brush away. You’re in some kind of dank warehouse—all dim lighting and cement walls, creaky pipes somewhere above you.

The first real coherent thought you have, despite unfortunate circumstances, is that you hope Jack isn’t mad at you. You remember he told you to stay in his home, remember talking to his wife’s picture. Remember someone abducting you from the relative safety. You remember Ginger’s medical suite, remember walking down Pearl and Broad—remember a woman in full cheetah print. Your address, your phone number, your friend’s names, your meeting with Larson. You remember everything.

At that revelation, you begin to struggle in your binds, desperate to get out; you think the rope tying your hands is beginning to loosen, but before you can get too far into it, a door in front of you opens, blinding you with bright light. Three figures move in; two with large guns, and as the third approaches, he comes into focus.

“Larson?” You ask confusedly.

“Call me Deathbrook, sweetheart. We’re not on a first name basis anymore.” You wrinkle your brow at him, hands trying to work the ties behind you. You thought Larson was his last name.

“Why are you doing this? If you’re after Jack, then—” He laughs wildly, turning to the true villain you painted him as. “Not Jack,” he smirks. “I’m after you.”

“Because of the exposé? Your tech was—” Before you can finish, he lands a hard blow across your jaw; you spit some blood from your mouth, but adrenaline courses through you; you know you need to distract him a bit longer, the knot almost loosened, so you continue. “Your work is sick! You know this is going to be exploited, and you’re letting it happen!” Another blow to your torso. “You’re—you’re evil. You evil, greedy bastard—” Deathbrook grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him, but you continue though his grip. “Jack is going to find you. And then you’ll pay.”

“Jack is collateral damage—he is nothing,” he chuckles; he hasn’t noticed your loosened wrists until one comes up and punches him square in the face. He recoils, ordering the guards who followed him in to restrain you again, stuffing a scrap of fabric into your mouth as you try to fight back; eventually, you’re back in the chair and tied tighter than before.

“Didn’t know pearls had such sharp edges,” he growls, fingers brushing away the blood from his nose as you snarl at him. “Don’t you worry, Little Pearl. Your Jack is on his way—and then I can kill him and you both.”

Jack finds the warehouse easily—it’s the same one that Tequila claimed to kill the man in. When he opens the door, his heart seems to drop to his stomach; framed by the light of the doorway, you sit tied into a chair, face bloodied and bruised. Most notably to him, though, is the look in your eyes—terrified, eyes flitting from Jack and around the room. Too consumed by saving you before it's too late, he rushes into the room, pulling the fabric from your mouth as the door clicks shut behind him.

“I—I thought I lost you, Pearl—" “Jack, it’s Deathbrook, he—”

“He knows.” Jack stands to face the voice, finding Deathbrook standing there with his two guards. “I put one of my ‘evil’ cameras in your bag, Pearl. I’ve been watching you two for weeks.” Jack’s jaw is set, hand hovering over his holsters. “He knows, don’t you, Jack? He found my papers in my office. Saw that too.” Deathbrook hums.

“What do you want from us?”

“Nothing from you, Daniels. Only from her—” Jack steps in front of you a bit, both guards ahead of him starting a bit at the movement until Deathbrook waves them away. “You know what I heard about you, Daniels? You lost your wife. Couldn’t protect her—then the police couldn’t find the killers. Security camera in that convenience store was busted. That’s why you joined Statesman, isn’t it? To find her murderers?” You glance up to Jack, who seems to falter a moment. “You, of all people, should want these cameras—"

“What’s to stop me from killing you and your goons right here on the spot.” Jack’s tone is authoritative, but Deathbrook only laughs.

“You think you could do what Tequila couldn’t? You betrayed them! Betrayed all of them!” Deathbrook seems to read the confusion on your face, so continues. “Oh, you didn’t tell your little pearl? A few years ago, your Jack here was ready to kill millions of people, including his own agents, his own friends, to avenge his wife.” Deathbrook is clearly mocking him, trying to get a rise out of him. Jack won’t look at you; won’t see the empathy on your face, the longing you have to reach out to him and hold him, to forgive him of his sins. The Jack you know has grown, has learned, has grieved and moved on, placing his wife on the bookshelf of his life.

“Well, Whiskey—you lost your wife, and now you’ll lose this girl, too.” In a split second, Deathbrook produces a pistol, aiming it at you. But Jack is quicker, drawing a lasso from his belt, and within an instant, the pistol is knocked from Deathbrook’s grip, both his guards sliced clean in half by the loop of the lasso. You watch in awe as he uses the rope to tie Deathbrook’s arms to his sides, pulling the man to the ground in front of him to kneel into his face.

“I’ve made mistakes, Deathbrook. But I sure as hell ain’t makin’ them again.” With that, he electrifies the lasso again, slicing Deathbrook and killing him in front of your eyes. You watch as he takes a deep breath, making a call as he tries to calm down.

“Ginge—it’s me. You’re gonna wanna get down to the ol’ warehouse on 4th. Somethin’ down here ya’ll will wanna see.” With that, he hangs up the phone, taking another deep breath before turning to you. He won’t meet your eyes, untying you as you babble to him.

“Jack—Jack! I remember. I remember everything!”

“That’s great, sweetpea.” Your face falls at his emotionless response.

“Sweetpea?” You ask gently, rubbing your irritated wrists as you try to catch his gaze. “Not Pearl?”

“Well, you remember now, and Deathbrook is dead, and—and you heard—”

“Jack,” you whisper, finally catching his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “Just because I remember the past doesn’t mean I forget you.” Tears seem to rise in his eyes, but he blinks them away. “Everything he said, everything that happened today—I don’t care. I love you, Jack Daniels. You may have done some bad things before, but today—that day on the street, and every day since—you saved me. That’s who you are. It’s time to leave the bad stuff in the past.” With your words, Jack finally meets your eyes again, pulling you into a crushing hug until he feels you wince.

“I—I’m sorry, Pearl, I should have gotten here sooner—”

“Jack, I’m okay,” you scold.

“I—I thought I lost you, too, I—”

“I know, Jack,” you coo.

“I haven’t—I never thought I could—” You let him compose himself. “When I lost her, I thought I’d never move on. That I’d forget her if I did, and—she didn’t deserve that. But then you came walkin’ on in my life, and you showed me that I could remember and move on at the same time.” You nod, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it. “Do you know how pearls are made?” You shake your head, confused about the change in subject. “Something gets inside the oyster, irritates it all up. Magic happens. Then, bam. Pearl.”

“Are you the irritant or the oyster?” you joke as Jack brushes blood from your hairline.

“You’re the irritant,” he points out, and before you can take offence, he continues. “You got under this oyster’s shell. And you made a pearl.” You let out a watery laugh, but he continues, a broad smile across his lips. “I love you, my beautiful pearl.” Your lips meet; despite the bruising, the swelling, you feel no pain, finally giving into the feelings between you. He pulls you to him, seemingly unbelieving you’re even still there. You only pull away when the door opens, Jack pushing you behind him until he sees Ginger and Champ enter. Champ takes one look at the body on the ground before looking to Jack in shock as Ginger begins to process the scene.

“Jack—I’m sorry, Jack, Tequila was supposed to—Ginger, I thought you processed that crime scene--”

“Threat’s over, Champ. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not—I’ll tell ya’, Jack. You want your ‘Agent’ title back, it’s all yours, you’ve shown—” Jack looks to you, your eyebrows raised in excitement.

“I’ll tell ya’ what, Champ—I’ll take the title back. But I’m not goin’ out in the field no more—this ol’ cowboy is putting the past behind him, and that includes field work. I got a girl to woo.” You smile broadly, resting your head into his bicep—you remember everything, now. Every word, every step, every breath. But you know in your heart—you could never forget Jack Daniels.

TAGLIST: @ophelialoveshandsomemen @ksd24670 @rosiefridayrogersunday @evelynseventyr @ajeff855 @thewintersoldierswife @knowledgefulbutterfly @amneris21 @sarahjkl82-blog @hellovanessax  @rebel-fanfare​ @tobealostwanderer @randomness501 @farfromjustordinary​ @outlawedmando​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedrostories​ @solemnlyswearss​ @mandocrasis​ @raspberrymama​ @pjkimrn​ @kirsteng42​ @ladykatakuri​ @marydjarin @donnaa​ @eri16​ @curiouskeyboard​ @frankiemoraleswifexo

[themand0lorian]

FLUFFTOBER DAY 18-PETS

Mr. Pancakes (An Impression, Sunrise Oneshot)

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: A new feline family member worms his way into your hearts.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N) from my Impression, Sunrise story!

Rating:  G

Words: ~2000 (oops) (AO3)

Tags: cats, eventual pet death after he lives a long life with the Pikes, yearning for Marcus Pike at all times

Notes: Ya’ll knew these guys needed a pet.

If you need a TL;DR on Impression Sunrise--Marcus and Reader were on a raid and found two small children (Grace and Eli), and end up as their guardians as they look for their birth parents despite barely knowing each other. When that doesn’t pan out, they adopt them fully, and Marcus and Reader end up together romantically. This takes place 2-3 years after the original story.

It was quiet—too quiet for the Pike household. Fall was just turning crisp, so Marcus brought the kids to the park one last time—though you’re sure Eli would love to play on the playground in the snow, it wasn’t so much fun for the adults of the family. They had been gone a few hours at this point—the kitchen was spotless, the playroom was picked up, Eli’s bed was made—you knew it was only a matter of time before your favorite tornadoes turned things around.

Right on cue, you heard the front door open, Marcus calling your name from the entry. You called back, telling him you were in the kitchen starting dinner, when the patter of little feet brought your attention from the countertop.

In all his 4-year-old glory, there stood Eli; his shoes were still on, coat barely unzipped, and in held tightly in his arms is a ginormous orange cat.

“Look what we found!” You blink a few times, the cat seems just as big as Grace; Marcus walks in behind Eli, Grace on his hip, looking sheepish.

“It—it’s a cat,” you manage to get out. The cat looks content in Eli’s arms, despite the fact that his back legs dangle from his tight hold and his chin is crumpled to his neck.

“Dad said we could keep him!” Your eyes immediately shift to Marcus, who grimaces.

“I said we could talk to Mom about keeping him if we can’t find his owners.” You try not to look too taken aback; Marcus had always been a dog guy. But with two young kids, pets were the furthest thing from your mind. You watched as Eli not-so-gracefully placed the cat on the ground; he immediately approached you, twining between your legs.

“Look! Mr. Pancakes already likes you!”

“Mr. Pancakes?”

“That’s his name!” You shoot Marcus a glare, mouthing “You named him?!” as he shrugs back.

“Eli, this is probably someone’s cat—we’ll need to try to find his owners.”

“Mr. Pancakes doesn’t have any owners,” he replies decidedly, the orange fluffball coming to rest on top of his feet. “He lost his mom and dad just like we did—so I thought—” he looks between you and Marcus; you’ve both softened, though you still were weary of the feline around two young kids.

“Eli, just like your mom and dad, we have to look for them first. Then, maybe if we don’t find them, we can talk about—” Marcus pauses, looking to you for confirmation. “We can talk about keeping him.” Eli smiles broadly, sweeping Mr. Pancakes back into his arms as he walks away.

“Did you hear that, Mr. Pancakes? You can stay! This is my room, those are my Lego…” You hear Eli give the cat a tour of the house, pinning Marcus with a glare.

“He pulled the ‘lost mom and dad’ card on me at the park—” he sighs, depositing Grace on the floor so she can chase after Eli and Mr. Pancakes. He walks up behind you, finally kissing you in greeting before wrapping his hands around your hips. “How can I say no to that?” “I always thought you were more of a dog guy,” you hum, and Marcus laughs loudly, squeezing you. “He can stay. For now. But he’s going to the vet in the morning to see if he has a chip.” Marcus agrees; when Eli comes to show Mr. Pancakes the kitchen, still held vertically in his grip in a way that cannot be comfortable for the poor thing, Marcus sets out a bowl of water and some leftover ground chicken from the fridge, which the cat laps up eagerly. He finds some old litter in the trunk of his car, meant for traction on icy roads, and Mr. Pancakes settles in nicely; your boys already wrapped around his little paw.

As luck would have it, Mr. Pancakes did not have a microchip. Being an orange cat with no distinct markings, you put together “Found Cat” flyers for the neighborhood, Eli helping to post them on electrical poles on your street and by the park. You taught him how to hold the cat properly, how to feed and give him water; Eli soaked it up like a sponge. When a few cat toys began appearing among the children’s toys, both you and Marcus chose not to mention it, though the collection still grew.

By the time winter came, you still hadn’t heard anything about Mr. Pancakes. You assumed he had lived with humans before; he tolerated Grace’s harsh pets and tail pulling like a saint, he patiently waited for his food and water from Eli, he let the two of them chase him around the house. Mr. Pancakes had settled in nicely, another piece to your little family puzzle you didn’t know you needed. At night, he would sleep on Eli’s bed, curled up on the pillow next to his head like his little protector. You and Marcus had never really discussed keeping the cat; he had kind of just wormed his way in. But on your way to say goodnight after dismissing the babysitter for date night, you both paused in the hallway, listening to Eli talk to the cat.

“I’m glad I found you, Mr. Pancakes. Mom and Dad adopted us after I lost Mommy and Daddy, and they’re the best. So they’ll adopt you, too. Then they can be your new mom and dad, just like for me and Gracie.” You look to Marcus across the dim hallway; if there was any question before, Mr. Pancakes was definitely staying now.

Mr. Pancakes was there through it all—he meowed loudly when Eli started kindergarten, posing in front of the front door like he was also going off to school when you snapped Eli’s picture. He let Grace dress him in doll clothes, accepted any food handed to him under the table gently and discreetly. When you got pregnant, he became protective of you; he still slept with Eli at night, but he was always underfoot, always watching to make sure things were going okay. And when Lucy came home, he promptly settled right on top of her in her bassinet; that was his baby, too.

Mr. Pancakes, despite being a cat, was probably Eli’s best friend. When he was young, you often heard him talking to the cat late at night; spilling secrets he was too scared or too embarrassed to tell you and Marcus about. Mr. Pancakes learned about Eli’s first crush, that his favorite subject was still art, that someone told him it was weird that he liked boys and girls the same way moms and dads do. Grace, following her brother’s lead, would also confide in the cat; fears of the dark, questions about friends and school and anything in between. Lucy, the youngest, didn’t do much talking to the cat; but Mr. Pancakes was there for each of her firsts, supporting her as she took her first steps, turning every time she yelled the word “cat.” The little guy even heard yours and Marcus’ problems, from fears over parenting to what to make to dinner. Mr. Pancakes was your fourth child, and probably the best therapist any of you could ask for.

The little orange fluff was a mainstay in Christmas cards and family photos; he often accompanied you on family vacations. Each of your kids had a picture in front of the fireplace with Mr. Pancakes and their respective date for prom; one of Mr. Pancakes swatting at their graduation cap tassel. A painted portrait of the orange feline won the art show for Eli; Mr. Pancakes was always quick to chase after Grace’s softballs. Lucy mostly just snuggled with the cat, which he was more than content with. You had no idea how old the cat was when you found him, but you were pretty sure he was pushing a world record—he never faltered, never dimmed, never got angry no matter what the kids did with him, even as he got up in age.

You knew it was time when he stopped eating. You called Eli and Grace; both were away at college, and came home that weekend. Each of them spent some time with the little bug. Lucy, just finishing high school, spent most of the time cuddling her long-time friend, pulling him to her chest to feel him breathe. Grace rolled a softball back and forth to him, watching as he just barely swatted it back at her. Eli laid on the floor with him for hours, updating him on everything he’s missed—his annoying roommate, how his girlfriend was doing, whether he thought he would graduate on time. Just like old times, your whole family was back under one roof.

And that seemed to be what the old cat was waiting for; he passed peacefully that night, in the presence of his siblings. Eli crafted a beautiful stone with his name and years of life on it; Marcus dug the hole in the backyard, wiping tears as he did. The little guy was laid to rest with three things; one, a paintbrush, from Eli. Two, a softball, from Grace. And three, a soft blanket, from Lucy. You all cried and hugged and said your final goodbyes; Eli staying the longest out in the backyard, sitting and talking with his friend. You watched from the kitchen window as you cleaned the counters; Marcus sneaking up behind you and startling you as he hugged around your body.

“He’ll be okay. Eventually.”

“I know,” you sigh. “I just—I miss the little furball already. I can’t imagine what this is like for them.” Grace had retreated to her room, always the quiet one. Lucy was waiting on friends to pick her up to take her mind of things.

“We raised them right, baby—they’ll be okay.” You can only nod as he nestles further into your neck.

“He was a good cat.”

“Can I tell you something?” You nod, eyes still trained on Eli.

“I was the one who named Mr. Pancakes, because I thought you’d let us keep him if he had a name.” You turn and swat him with the kitchen towel, a scold on the tip of your tongue. “I just—I knew he was meant to be with us. Just like them. Just like you. So I gave him the first name I could think of.” He hums, the both of you watching as Eli finally stands from the edge of the property, walking back to the house. He offers you both a tentative smile, which you return. “Marcus Pike, you big ol’ softie.”

“It’s been 17 years—is it really that much of a surprise anymore,” he chuckles, and you finally turn to him. He still looks just as handsome as the day you met him; hair a little greyer, wrinkles a bit more defined. He’s lost the suits and ties for the most part, both of you retired comfortably from the FBI. He teaches at the community college in his free time, you volunteer at Lucy’s school. So many things have changed, but through everything--every up and down and high and low--your pillar of strength, the best dad to cats and humans alike, the best husband, the best man you could ever ask for, stands before you, just as in love as the day he married you. Marcus Pike; FBI Agent, Devoted Husband and Father, Cat Whisperer. And he’s all yours.

TAGLIST: @ophelialoveshandsomemen​ @ksd24670​ @rosiefridayrogersunday​ @evelynseventyr​ @ajeff855​ @thewintersoldierswife​ @knowledgefulbutterfly​ @amneris21​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @hellovanessax​ @darling-din @rebel-fanfare​ @tobealostwanderer​ @randomness501​ @farfromjustordinary​ @outlawedmando​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedrostories​ @solemnlyswearss​ @mandocrasis​ @raspberrymama​ @pjkimrn​ @kirsteng42​ @ladykatakuri​ @marydjarin​​ @sugarontherims @ajeff855​ @spideysimpossiblegirl​ @seasonschange-butpeopledont​ @imaginecrushes​ @giselatropicana​ @agingerindenial​ @supernaturalgirl​ @captain-jebi​ @lou-la-lou​  @pascalsimp​ @antisocialthat70sshow​ @dragcn-queen​ @sambucky21 @farfromjustordinary​​ @fangirl-of-randomness​ @aquilacorvinal​ @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan

[themand0lorian]

FLUFFTOBER DAY 31-HALLOWEEN COSTUMES

Superheroes (An Impression, Sunrise oneshot)

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: Sometimes superheroes have capes and spandex suits. Sometimes they can fly or turn invisible. Sometimes, they're just the best dad a kid could ask for.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N) from my Impression, Sunrise story!

Rating:  PG

Words: ~2500 (oops) (AO3)

Tags: Halloween Costumes, Eli doesn't comply with gender norms and we love him for it, protective dad!Marcus, prejudiced other parents but Marcus handles them; I included links in the text for the costumes in case you need help picturing them!

Notes: The last installment of Flufftober! Hope everyone enjoyed. It was a lot more work than I thought, but I'm proud of myself for sticking it through and getting every piece out on time! I will probably take a bit of a break after this, but then it's back to the normal things--I haven't forgotten about PAPAM! Thank you for all the support this month <3

If you need a TL;DR on Impression Sunrise–Marcus and Reader were on a raid and found two small children (Grace and Eli), and end up as their guardians as they look for their birth parents despite barely knowing each other. When that doesn’t pan out, they adopt them fully, and Marcus and Reader end up together romantically. This takes place a few months after the end of the original story!

You knew it was October. Knew it had been five months since that court date that brought your family back together, knew it had been six months since you and Marcus finally confessed your feelings for each other. But those six months had been filled with so much; birthday parties, coloring books, puzzles, swimming lessons, new cases, family dinners. You were still inseparable; your relationship with Marcus only getting stronger as time went on, your love for the kids somehow growing more than you thought possible. But when it’s October 23, and you’re unpacking Eli’s backpack to find a flyer inviting you to his Halloween Parade—on October 29—all you feel is true panic.

You hadn’t celebrated Halloween since college; no kids came trick or treating to your door in your apartment, costumes weren’t exactly conducive to FBI work. When Marcus looks away from his cutting board to see you staring blankly at the flyer, he comes over to read it over your shoulder, and you feel his face drop. “We forgot about Halloween.”

“We have—six more days,” he reminds you. You give him an incredulous look. “We’ll go to the store this weekend.” You nod, pinning the flyer to the fridge, compartmentalizing the stress of your first real holiday with the kids for after they go to sleep.

The big box store you end up in—the same one you went to all those months ago—is pretty thoroughly picked over by this point. Dozens of other families stand with kids in various states of meltdowns, trying to find costumes. You wince slightly, and Marcus squeezes your hip, pushing the four of you forward toward the mess of costumes strewn on the floor and candy bags ripped to shreds.

Gracie was easy enough; her current obsession was “moo moos,” or, in adult-speak, cows, so when you came across a cow costume for babies, furry and hooded and unquestionably adorable, it went straight in the cart. Marcus, too, was easy; a superman tshirt landed in the cart from the men’s section; he already had the thick-rimmed glasses for reading, and his closet was stuffed with suits for work. He could be a half-transformed Clark Kent. You considered yourself an afterthought; cat ears were thrown in the carriage, you figured you could put together an all-black outfit and use some eyeliner for whiskers. Plus, you’d be in something easy; no big, bulky blowups or stuffed suits to contend with an excited toddler and a happy baby. Eli’s costume, however, was decidedly more difficult.

“Eli, what do you want to be for Halloween?” He twists his face as he thinks; he’s walking alongside the cart, Grace in the little seat built in, but he’s been taught to keep his hand on the handlebar so he won’t run off and he does so with vigilance.

“A fairy princess!” “A fairy princess?” Marcus questions; it’s not malicious, more checking that the indecisive boy was sure. Eli had never really fallen in the "stereotypical boy" category; he loved everything. He did soccer and ballet, sang in music class and rolled in the mud at recess. You and Marcus had always embraced him for who he was; sometimes he picked a shirt with unicorns on it, and you went with it. Sometimes he was in his monster truck phase. The only thing that mattered to you both was that he knew he was loved, as he is.

“Uh, no—a fairy princess dinosaur!” You exchange a look with Marcus.

“What does that look like, Eli?” You ask gently, not wanting to squash his creative mind. He looks around the costume section; with your permission, he takes Marcus’ hand and leaves the cart, leading him around the aisles as he picks items. You exchange a weary look with Gracie, but the two return quickly enough, Eli beaming. Marcus holds several things; a rainbow sparkly tutu, a wand with a star and streamers attached, a plastic tiara, and a dinosaur onesie in Eli’s size all end up in the cart.

“We couldn’t find any wings—but Marcus said he could make some for me!” Eli tells you excitedly; when you look to Marcus to confirm, he looks a little nervous.

“Did he? That’s great, Eli,” you coo. “Are we all set then?” Eli nods, Grace toys with the strap of the cart seat, and Marcus comes behind you, wrapping you in his warmth to put his hands over yours on the cart and press a kiss to your cheek.

“Marcus, I can’t push it like this—” He pouts, making Eli giggle loudly, and instead grabs the boy, carrying him to the checkout and ensuring all of you he had this Halloween thing handled.

Marcus spends the next two nights making fairy wings after the kids have gone to sleep; sparkles, glue, stockings, wire hangers, every craft supply in the house sit on the floor in front of him as the TV plays a sitcom in the background. He hasn’t watched any of the episodes, focusing on the task at hand; by night three, he has the perfect set of fairy wings crafted. Eli had returned from school a bit down, spending most of the night in his room, and you thought it would be the perfect thing to cheer him up, especially with the school’s Halloween parade the next day.

“Eli, look what Marcus made for you—” Eli’s eyes go wide at the set of wings; they’re truly beautiful for a kid’s costume, wire and mesh transformed, and Eli looks excited before his face falls.

“I don’t want to be a fairy princess dinosaur anymore,” he whines. You and Marcus exchange a look; not only is it too late to change his costume, but Eli had been ecstatic about it all week, constantly talking about the tutu and the wand and itching to see Marcus’ wings.

“Why not?” Marcus asks gently. Eli’s curled in bed; his hand brushes over the wings longingly, but he looks sad still.

“Matthew said only girls could be fairy princesses. He said if—if I’m a fairy princess, then I’m a girl, and I’m not a girl,” he replies smally, and your faces fall. Despite your acceptance of Eli, the public school he now attended didn’t always support him how you wished they would, especially the other kids. Eli was special, that much you knew; but being special around children often translates to being bullied.

“Eli, if you want to be a fairy princess, you can be a fairy princess,” you reply, taking a seat next to Marcus on the bed.

“Matthew said it was weird. I don’t want to be weird.”

“You’re not weird, Eli. You’re you. And we love you for you.” You look at Marcus; he looks almost as dejected as the boy, the wings he spent so long on discarded despite Eli’s clear interest in them.

“Well—could I just be the dinosaur? He said boys can be dinosaurs.”

“I’ll tell you what—how about we pack the whole costume, and you can decide tomorrow whether you want to wear the whole thing or just the dinosaur part when we come see you for the parade.” Eli nods into the pillow, Wilbur gripped tightly to him. You give him a quiet kiss goodnight, but Marcus stays in the room, dismissing you to chat a bit more with Eli.

You don’t know what the boys said, but Marcus comes to bed the maddest you’ve ever seen him.

“Who is this Matthew boy? I don’t like him,” Marcus says as you get ready for bed. “I hope his parents are at the parade tomorrow, so I can give them a piece of my mind—” “Marcus,” you scold. “Eli’s always been different. This isn’t the first time we’ve had one of these conversations with him, and it definitely won’t be the last. You can’t just threaten every parent with a flash of your badge,” you joke around your toothbrush.

“I know, I just—” “I know, baby. But part of growing up is learning who you are—if you’re a dinosaur or a fairy princess dinosaur. We need to let him try to sort it out.” You run your hands over Marcus’ shoulders, and he relaxes under your touch.

“He’s not allowed to grow up yet. It’s only been five months—”

“Marcus, we have their whole lives ahead of us. In a few years you’ll be tired of making Eli’s costumes and I’ll be making sure Grace’s skirt isn’t too short.”

“Oh, God,” he groans, and you pull him to face you.

“And we’ll be here for them then just as much as we’re here for them now.” Marcus pulls you for a chaste kiss, mixing the mint of your toothpastes together. “What would I do without you?” “Probably arrest every school bully from now until college,” you chuckle, climbing into bed with Marcus behind you, who snorts.

“That’s not off the table.”

You settle easily that night, but Marcus seems to toss and turn. You know, like Eli, he’s going to need to solve the problem for himself, no matter how much you want to step in and help your boys. When you wake up the next morning, Marcus is dead on his feet; he helps you get Eli and Grace ready for the day, packing Eli’s full costume in his backpack, but tells you to take Grace to the daycare; he’s going to go in late, bring Eli to school and try to get some rest before work. You only agree when he promises not to stake out Matthew’s parents.

Marcus texts you later in the day that he’ll meet you at Eli’s parade, asking if you could get Grace ready and bring her from work. The day has been so busy you barely think anything of it; figuring he has a meeting scheduled or has to catch up on his late start to the day. You knew he’d never miss the parade—all the kids of the school dressing in their Halloween costumes to walk around the parking lot and show off for all the parents. So you get Grace in her cow onesie—pretty easy, as it slips right over her normal outfit—and affix your cat ears. In the parking lot of the school, you quickly draw on your whiskers, and decide to give Grace a matching black button nose before joining the other parents to line up along the parade route.

You begin to get nervous when the start time approaches and Marcus hasn’t found you yet; your eyes scan the crowd for your Clark Kent, past parents who chose not to dress up and a few who went a little overboard, with Grace on your hip. Finally, you spot him—you’re surprised you didn’t see him from a mile away.

Marcus is not in his Clark Kent outfit. He’s wearing a green shirt painted with scales, a rainbow tutu that scatters glitter as he walks, a plastic crown too small for his head sits in his curls. Two large wings, which match the ones he made Eli, are affixed to his back. You don’t see a wand, but you figure it’s there somewhere, and you don’t need it to figure out what he is—a fairy princess dinosaur. He gives you a quick peck when he gets to you, standing in place as the principal announces the start of the parade.

“I take it you didn’t go to work today,” you chuckle, giving him Grace when she reaches for him.

“Yeah, I, uh—I was working on this. Sorry, I know you expected your Clark Kent—” The parade starts with the youngest kids; coming out of the school building, you see two rainbow wings first, followed by a tiara and a dinosaur onesie; Eli has the broadest smile on his face, his eyes lighting up when he spots you with an eager wave—but he practically jumps out of his skin in excitement when he sees Marcus, sprinting ahead of his class to wrap Marcus in the biggest hug, which he meets happily, wings tangling.

“You’re a fairy princess dinosaur! Like me!”

“I am,” Marcus confirms. Eli’s teacher calls for him, and he looks between her and Marcus. “Go ahead, bud. Go show everyone your cool costume.” You watch as Eli makes his way back to his class, his voice carrying over the chatter of the kids.

“That’s my dad. Isn’t he cool?! He made my wings, too!” You look to Marcus, who’s beaming, then rest your head on his shoulder, careful to avoid the wings.

“I think you’re still somebody’s superhero, Marcus,” you whisper, and you swear, you hear his heart burst as he watches Eli interact with the other kids.

It isn’t until you’re waiting on the side of the playground, watching as Eli plays with other kids in his class and pushing Grace in a swing, her little cow tail fluttering in the wind, that Marcus asks what you expected from the start.

“Which one is Matthew.” He says the boy’s name like a curse word, under his breath, but makes you chuckle.

“The skeleton over there,” you barely gesture, trying to be discreet. Marcus nods; Matthew and Eli are kicking a soccer ball back and forth, happy as clams, clearly no ill feelings from either of them. When Eli sees Marcus looking, he leads Matthew over to you both; two adults, who you assume are his parents, follow closely behind, uncostumed.

“This is my friend Matthew. He’s a skeleton!”

“That’s a cool costume, Matthew. Very scary,” you answer, pulling Marcus closer to you lest he yells at a child. Matthew’s dad sneers from behind the kids as they run to continue and play; his mom is glued to her phone.

“And what are you supposed to be?” He chuckles, looking Marcus up and down. It’s clear that Matthew’s attitude came from his father, the distaste palpable between the men.

“A fairy princess dinosaur.” “What are you, some kinda—” “And a supervisory special agent in the FBI,” Marcus cuts the man off sternly. Matthew’s dad immediately shuts up, quickly leading his mom away from the two of you to grab Matthew and leave. Eli takes it in stride, finding some other kids to play with almost instantly.

“Marcus—"

“Let me be his superhero for a bit longer,” he murmurs, his pushes of Grace on the swing never faltering. You sigh.

“You’ll always be our superhero, Marcus,” you hum into his ear, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“As long as you’ll always be my Lois Lane,” he smiles back to you.

“Always.”

TAGLIST: @ophelialoveshandsomemen​ @ksd24670​ @rosiefridayrogersunday​ @evelynseventyr​ @ajeff855​ @thewintersoldierswife​ @knowledgefulbutterfly​ @amneris21​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @hellovanessax​ @darling-din @rebel-fanfare​ @tobealostwanderer​ @randomness501​ @farfromjustordinary​ @outlawedmando​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedrostories​ @solemnlyswearss​ @mandocrasis​ @raspberrymama​ @pjkimrn​ @kirsteng42​ @ladykatakuri​ @marydjarin​​ @sugarontherims @ajeff855​ @spideysimpossiblegirl​ @seasonschange-butpeopledont​ @imaginecrushes​ @giselatropicana​ @agingerindenial​ @supernaturalgirl​ @captain-jebi​ @lou-la-lou​  @pascalsimp​ @antisocialthat70sshow​ @dragcn-queen​ @sambucky21 @farfromjustordinary​​@fangirl-of-randomness​ @aquilacorvinal​ @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan

[themand0lorian]

For flufftober #4 with Marcus Pike? 🥺🥺🥺

Anon! Thank you for the request!!! I hope you enjoy!! As stated, this is for Day 4-Fireworks/Sparklers.

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: It’s your wedding day!

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating:  PG

Words: ~600 (AO3)

Tags: weddings and all accompanying items

Everything about that day was perfect. The white dress that cascaded perfectly over your figure, your hair and makeup done just right. Flowers and champagne and excited smiles passed between you and your closest friends, watching as they donned matching dresses. The music swelled, you stepped out onto the aisle and there, at the end, was the epitome of perfection—your soon-to-be husband, Marcus Pike. Bawling like a baby.

Maybe that part wasn’t so perfect, but you were crying too—so amazed that this man, this sweet, caring, romantic, handsome man—was about to be yours forever. Sure, Marcus had done this before—almost twice, even—but he would go on to tell everyone that seeing you walk out of those doors, white dress and bouquet in hand, what felt like an ethereal glow about you from the golden hour light—he knew he wouldn’t be doing it again. The ceremony passed in a blur, Marcus’ hand never far from your back or your waist, itching to slide the ring on your finger. You had written your own vows—yours got Marcus crying and laughing at the same time, which you counted as a win—and his sounded like they belonged in a poetry book. You have kissed Marcus hundreds, if not thousands of times since you’ve been together. An awkward first kiss at your door to say goodnight, a heated and passionate one between the sheets, a peck to say hello when he gets home from work. But the kiss at the altar, the kiss that declared you man and wife—you counted that as your all-time favorite. The world around you seemed to pause, your souls connecting through your lips as your family and friends cheered and music swelled. The reception went by in a blur; you were happy you had splurged on the photographer, insurance that you wouldn’t miss any minute detail. Marcus paraded you around to his family, swayed and twirled you on the dancefloor, kissed you when glasses were clinked. Despite the sea of people, all vying for a moment of your attention, you and Marcus felt like the only ones in the room. Cake was cut, guests let loose, and soon, the party was over, and it was time for you to make your exit with your new husband. You had agonized over the exit. Decided against rice (bad for birds) or confetti (bad for the environment), contemplated sneaking out several times just for a moment alone with your soulmate. But when the doors opened, and each of your guests stood in a line with a lit sparkler leading your way, you were thankful you hadn’t. Marcus squeezed your hand, leading you down the rows of people as the sparklers crackled above, sending sparks off the tips. The faint smell of gunpowder lingered as people clapped and celebrated, and once you reached the end—at the door to your getaway car—Marcus pulled you to him, dipping you into a kiss full of so  much passion and vibrance you wondered if the loud boom you just heard was your heart exploding from happiness. It wasn’t, of course. Overhead, as the sparklers died out, several large bursts of fireworks erupted, all colors and shapes as the light reflected back on your face. They weren’t something you planned, something for your party, and you almost chuckled at the coincidence. You looked to the fireworks in awe, wanting to remark on what lucky timing you had, but overwhelmed, only one word came out. “Wow.” You turned to face Marcus, who was solely looking at you, the multicolored light dancing across his profile as he smiled softly. “Wow indeed.”

TAGLIST: @ophelialoveshandsomemen @ksd24670 @rosiefridayrogersunday @evelynseventyr @ajeff855 @thewintersoldierswife @knowledgefulbutterfly @amneris21 @sarahjkl82-blog @hellovanessax @darling-din @rebel-fanfare @tobealostwanderer @randomness501 @farfromjustordinary @outlawedmando @agirllovespancakes @pedrostories @solemnlyswearss @mandocrasis @raspberrymama @pjkimrn @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @marydjarin​ @fangirl-of-randomness @aquilacorvinal @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan

[themand0lorian]

FLUFFTOBER DAY 9-TEXT MESSAGES

The Pearl-Part 2

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: Some memories return, but both Jack and Pearl know that, sometimes, things are easier left forgotten.

Pairing: Jack Daniels x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating:  PG-13

Words: ~3800 (AO3)

Tags: canon typical violence, flirty Jack, Jack deals with his feelings about his sweetheart, amnesia fic

Notes: Another Flufftober that’s maybe not as fluffy as intended lol, I promise this has a happy ending! Happy with some parts, not as happy with others--31 fics in 31 days is a lot more than I thought.

This is part 2 of (?) parts, to be continued during Flufftober--but I won’t say which days to prevent spoilers!

“Jack? Who was that?” Your soft voice breaks his concentration on the phone in front of him; you’re standing in the kitchen, wrapped in the white duvet from the guest room and looking every bit the pearl he called you.

“Uh—no, no one. Tryin’ to sell me somethin’, you know how it is,” he sputters, but you accept it at face value. “Tell you what—why don’t you go get cleaned up, and I’ll find somethin’ you can change into so we can eat.”

“You telling me I smell, Whiskey?” You cock your eyebrow, and he laughs, though not as fully as you’d hoped.

“Never. Go on, now—” he pushes you gently into the guest bathroom. “I’ll put some clothes right out here, then go into the living room so you can have your privacy.” You nod, Jack closing the door behind him but not leaving the spot until he hears the shower spray turn on. He quickly dials Champ as he makes his way into his bedroom closet, searching for some clothes that might fit you and cutting off his boss as soon as he hears the phone pick up.

“Champ—It’s Deathbrook, I swear. I just—” Jack pauses when the man releases a heavy sigh.

“Whiskey, if this is your way of getting back into my good graces, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it,” he drawls.

“No! Listen, I just got a—” “I mean, making up stories about a guy Tequila killed months ago? What, you gonna ‘solve the whole thing,’ Whiskey? Then I have to reinstate you as a full agent?” Champ’s voice is tired more than taunting, but Jack tries again.

“Champ, if you would just trust me—”

“I have trusted you, Jack. And look where that ended up with Poppy,” Champ sighs. Jack releases a stuttering breath, his own mistake thrown back at him.

“What are you sayin’, Champ?” Jack practically growls, but Champ keeps his cool.

“Maybe it’s time to retire, Jack.” The words feel like they’ve punched him in the chest, but Jack hears the shower turn off, and without thinking, grabs the first clothes in his reach, depositing them outside the bathroom as he holds the phone to his ear.

“Champ, I—” “Get some sleep, Whiskey.” With that, the line goes dead, and Jack’s left staring at the phone in his hand, just like before.

By the time you come out of the bathroom, Jack’s got pasta boiling on the stove and a tumbler of his namesake in his hand, relishing the burn as it goes down his throat. When he turns to you after you announce your presence, it almost comes back up again.

After his wife died, Jack hadn’t touched anything, hadn’t moved anything. Despite the funeral, despite ID’ing her body, he half expected her to walk back through that door. Groceries in hand, humming just like she always did, that sweet lilt to her voice as she talked to the baby. His home was a time capsule, just waiting for her to come back to it.

When Statesman moved him up to New York, he faced a decision; whether her things would come with him. It forced him to do the hard things; donate the baby furniture, finally toss out her toothbrush. But some of her things made the trip—a box full of things he couldn’t quite let go of, tucked into the storage closet. Her perfume, her hairbrush, the pillow from her side of the bed. She had more clothes than he knew what to do with—so many of them ended up donated or resold, but a few—the ones with memories attached, the ones he couldn’t quite part with—still hung next to his suits and ties, taking up their own space in the closet. And apparently, in his distracted state, that’s what he’d given you.

It’s a t-shirt emblazoned with the name of their high school; a small eagle mascot across the stomach. When they went to college, they would send the shirt back and forth to each other, wear it for months at a time and return it smelling like them. It had been decades since that happened, her smell long-gone. But his heart felt hollow realizing now it would smell like you.

“What are you making?” You ask innocently, unaware of his inner turmoil. He forced himself to look up from the t-shirt, giving you a half-hearted smile.

“Just some pasta, darlin’. Sorry, don’t have much around these parts—don’t eat here much.” You nod, graciously accepting a plate once the meal is cooked. Jack settles next to you, pulling the laptop from his work back and placing it between you. “How about we do some research on ya’, Pearl? See if we can find anything?” You nod, and Jack types your full name into Google.

The first result is a newspaper article, though not one you wrote. The headline, “Two dead in drunk driver collision—only daughter survives” tells you enough, and you quickly click off the page.

“Some memories are better forgotten,” you murmur, clicking on the next result.

“That they are,” Jack agrees. The next few results aren’t about you at all, people with similar names and full lives who have come up in the search. You find your student information from college, a mostly blank Facebook page with 3 friends that may or may not belong to you, but other than that, there’s not much to go by, and after a few pages of search results, you end up shutting the laptop screen.

“Maybe it’s better I don’t remember,” you mutter, stabbing more pasta with your fork.

“Don’t say that, Pearl. I’m sure there’s plenty a’ good things you deserve to remember. Friends, boyfriend, job promotions—” “Then why aren’t they looking for me, Jack?” You pierce him with your gaze, hurt behind an attempt of strong eyes, and Jack sighs, running a hand over your shoulder; he pulls it back quickly when the feeling is too familiar, instead gathering the empty plates to bring them to the sink.

“I don’t know, Pearl. I just don’t know.”

You practically feel his mood shift, watching as he quietly rinses the dishes and loads the dishwasher, and choose to excuse yourself to bed, claiming fatigue, and part of you hoping, maybe you’d wake up in your normal life.

You don’t. You wake up still in Jack’s guest room, surrounded by the puffy white duvet. You slept deeply, but remembering the situation, you groan as you awake.

“Good morning to you, too.” Jack is standing in the doorway with a smirk, and you almost roll out of the bed in embarrassment as he sips his coffee. Whatever dark cloud came over him last night seems to have dissipated, which you’re thankful for. Jack is basically all you have in this weird, twisted world, and your life is easier when he’s happier. He had regretted his bad mood the night before; you didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask to be in the crossfire, to lose your memory, to stay with him, to be given a shirt he wasn’t quite ready to give up. He clears his throat when you come to rest, face-down into the pillows.

“I was thinkin’ today we could go to that office you were a visitor at. See if they had any more information on ya’,” You hum in agreement, so he continues. “Then I had Ginger do a search on ya overnight. We can see what she’s come up with after we go to the office.” You nod into the pillow, but don’t roll back over. “Pearl?”

“I thought this was a bad dream,” you groan into it as you speak, then roll to face him. “I thought when I woke up today, everything would be back to normal.” Jack hums, coming into the room to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry, Pearl. It’s my fault you got caught up in all this—” “No, Jack,” you answer sternly, finally sitting up in the bed. Your hair is mussed, eyes crusted in sleep, but Jack almost gasps at your beauty in the light morning sun. “I—I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I want my memories back, but I’m glad I’m trying to find them with you.” He smiles warmly, standing to walk out the door.

“Alright, Pearl. I washed your dress last night if you want to throw that little number back on, and we can get goin’.”

“Jack?” He turns to face you again, pausing in the doorway. “Thank you. For saving my life.” He nods, leaving you to your morning routine.

The office you apparently left is spacious, full of floor-to-ceiling windows and fake plants and uncomfortable looking seats. Though Jack walks in with you, he loiters in a corner while you approach a receptionist, giving her your name.

“I—uh, I was here yesterday, I guess. I was wondering if you could tell me who I was meeting, and the purpose of the meeting?” The woman gives you a strange look. “It’s a long story. I just—I really need that information.”

“Do you have an ID?” “No, my wallet was—” “Without ID, I can’t provide any details, miss,” she sounds fake in her lack of apology; you’re about to fight a bit harder when a Stetson is placed on the desk next to you.

“Hey there, sweetpea,” a heavy drawl intones, and you look over to Jack. He’s amping up the charm—and it seems to be working, the receptionist enthralled. “I know you needed an ID, but my friend here—her wallet got stolen, and she’s in a right pickle. I was hoping you could make an exception—just this once, for me?” You fight a roll of your eyes, but the receptionist clacks away on her keyboard before reading off the screen.

“Says you were here for an interview with Mr. Larson—he’s head of marketing for our new product.”

“Which is?”

“That information is classified, honey,” the woman replies to you tersely. Jack barely has to open his mouth again before she stands, whispering to him, but loud enough for you to hear. “But I hear its some new security camera—small enough to fit on the end of a pin. Could change the security game,” she flirts. Jack thanks her, placing his hat back on his head with a nod, and leading you back out to the street. You wait until you’re out of the office to speak.

“You always flirt to get your way?” you ask, half-joking.

“When it works,” he smirks.

“And here I thought I was special,” you sigh dramatically, and Jack stops the flow of pedestrians on the street to whirl around and face you.

“You are special.”

When you get to Statesman, Jack leaves you with Ginger while he goes to talk to his boss. She shows you her own research on your life—small details, friends and apartments and important dates, but it feels like you’re reading about a character in a novel. Nothing seems to spark your memory, though an image she found in an old email—a sewing pin standing on end—raises your hackles. You figure it’s because of your previous meeting, thank her for the information, and the two of you sit and chat until Jack comes back.

Champ wouldn’t even meet with Jack when he got in; resignation papers were stacked neatly on his desk. Jack shredded the blank forms, leaving the pile outside his office door, then formed a plan in his head. It was clear he wouldn’t be getting Statesman’s help on this; if he wanted to survive, wanted to defeat Deathbrook, he would be on his own. He packs up his whip, his lasso, his revolvers—any tech he can get his hands on, really. He leaves his work phone with Ginger for a contact trace, instead resorting to his personal phone only, less tech involved but also less known by Deathbrook. Sure, going rogue wouldn’t exactly be the best, given his current reputation—but it’s the only choice he has to defeat this guy, once and for all, and he has to take it.

He finds you and Ginger chatting like old friends—he wonders if, under different circumstances, you would be friends, but pushes it out of his mind. Like him, you have a bag at your hip—Statesman issued clothing that Ginger had requested, somehow made exactly your size. You ignore Jack’s murmurs to the doctor about his phone, about you, and soon enough, you’re back out on the streets of New York.

“Look at him, Jack,” you murmur. Jack follows your gaze to find a man in a fully bejeweled suit, glistening even in the overcast sky. “He wins for today.” “Wins what, Pearl?”

“Ridiculous outfits for the day—” you falter at the end of your sentence. “Jack, that’s what I was doing yesterday! I was looking for people wearing ridiculous outfits, and you won!”

“Now, Pearl, you wound me,” he chuckles, hand to his heart.

“No! Not like that! I mean, yes, like that—but Jack! I remember!”

“Do you remember anything else?” The excitement you previously held deflates—you notice you’re back on Pearl and Broad, but even looking around, nothing springs to memory.

“No…” Jack only nods, continuing to lead you back to his condo. Back at Statesman, his phone chimes with a text message on Ginger’s desk. Champ’s ordered her not to help him anymore, and it sits locked in one of her drawers. 

“Whiskey and Pearls—an unlikely combo.”

The next few weeks pass in much the same fashion. Your memories return in spurts—your favorite flavor when Jack takes you for ice cream, your graduation from college when you see one of their football games on tv. But it’s slow going, and the important things—your home, your job, your life—don’t seem to want to budge.

Jack does his best with what he got from the receptionist at the office building, but research on a highly classified security camera, without Statesman level clearances, proves more difficult than he imagined. Though, not nearly as difficult as living with you has been.

He forgot what it was like to have someone else around; someone to grab the groceries when you were caught up, to talk to over dinner, to answer Jeopardy questions in front of the TV with. He forgot what it was like to care about someone else; to make sure they ate, to provide for them, to protect them. He forgot what it felt like to love. And this time with you, your endearingly sweet personality, the times you make him laugh harder than he has since before his life changed for good, the sheer beauty you emanate when you roll out of bed, hair frazzled and eyes half open as you search for caffeine—he’s worried he’s going to start remembering.

And then you’ll remember, and it’ll all be for naught.

You still wore that tattered Eagle shirt every night, but Jack found himself minding it less. One day, you’re wearing it while he cooks; he likes to narrate what he’s doing like a cooking show, but his speech falters when he sees you in it again, despite the many weeks now you’ve worn it.

“Why are you still wearing that ratty old thing when Ginge gave you so much nice stuff?” He frames it as an innocent question, but part of him is only asking because his hands itch to hang it back where it belongs in his closet.

“Uh—it’s comfortable,” you murmur, then continue quietly. “And it smells like you.” Jack whips around at that, pans forgotten on the stove as his memories crash through him.

 Why do you want my shabby old t-shirt, sweetheart?

It’s comfortable, Jack. And it smells like you. My home away from home.

Dinner is eaten in complete silence, Jack rebuffing any attempt you make at conversation. You recognize the mood from the first night you were there; something, some dark cloud, passes over, and all you can do is wait out the storm. So you offer to do the dishes, and he quickly retreats to his room, closing the door.

With Jack off to bed right after dinner, and only two plates to clean, there isn’t much for you to do. It’s clear your nightly Jeopardy was cancelled, and you worry you offended him somehow, but stuck in the emptiness of his condo, you can’t do much about it. You plan on apologizing in the morning, taking in more of the space to busy your mind. Your hand runs over the picture of the woman again, looking into her eyes.

“I wish you could tell me what I did wrong,” you murmur, leaving the mantle to go over to the bookshelf. You pull out an old edition of a novel you’ve never heard of, cuddling into the corner of the couch and cracking it open, hoping to pass some time as the city below you bustles.

The condo has several large, floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room; when you tire of the book after a few chapters, you find yourself wrapped up in front of them, just watching the glistening lights pass below. The lights twinkle just so as you sit in the still silence, reflecting off a book pushed into the corner of the bookshelf, mostly hidden under other items.

You know you shouldn’t pry, but half of you still thinks this is a dream—and dream you has no rules. So you pull out the hidden book, finding it’s an old photo album. You flip though the first few pages; pictures of a boy you assume is Jack, learning to ride a horse. With his parents. One marked “first day of school.” You continue to flip through; if you can’t remember your own life, maybe you can remember his.

Soon enough, the woman from the photo on the mantle starts to appear. They look to be in high school—confirmed by one photo captioned “Prom.” They both look undeniably happy, giddy in the way teenagers often do. On the next page is a picture of her in a cheerleading uniform, Jack in a football jersey. Both of them have eagles across the front.

You continue through the snapshots of Jack’s life—of this woman’s life. Watch as they go to college, as they buy a house together and stand on the dilapidated porch for a photo. Jack never loses that giddy look, like he can’t quite believe the woman is really with him.

Then there’s a sonogram, and your heart falls. There are pictures labeled “baby shower,” one with “it’s a boy!” balloons. The last photo is a polaroid of her, in some kind of cabin. Just a simple portrait; the edges worn like it’s been toyed with over and over.

“That was from our last vacation together.” You snap the book shut at the sound of his voice, though he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds like he’s longing. “She called it out ‘babymoon.’”

“This is hers, isn’t it?” you ask quietly, pinching the shirt you’re wearing, and Jack rounds the couch to sit next to you in front of the large windows. The light from below dances across his face as he looks to his lap.

“It is.”

“I can give it back—” “No, Pearl. It—it’s time it got some use again,” he murmurs. You nod, looking back out to the cityscape. Neither of you face each other, but you continue to speak.

“Would you tell me about her?” You can almost hear Jack gulp, but you let the request hang in the silence between you for a few minutes.

“She—she was my high school sweetheart. We were real sweet on each other all through school, and I finally got the guts to ask her out senior year and—she said yes. Can you believe it,” he admonishes, shaking his head. Your hand moves to find his in the dark, covering it gently.

“We got through everything. Did long distance in college, bought a house. Asked her to marry me with my momma’s ring. She got pregnant—with my boy. We were so excited. Everything I ever wanted—it was perfect.” Jack takes a deep breath.

“Cops said she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. All the sudden, everything—my love, my little boy, my whole world—were all taken from me. Just like that.” You squeeze his fingers, but he pulls them away. “It’s like you said. Some memories are better forgotten.” You both mull over the statement, but he speaks again. “There was a reason this was tucked under all those things.”

“Jack—Thank you for sharing that with me,” you say gently, and he nods. “Even if you want to forget, even if I never remember my own life—I’m glad I’ll get to remember hers.” With that you stand, placing a hand on his shoulder as you do; his finds yours easily, squeezing it in thanks.

Jack sits for a long time in the same spot, looking out the windows. He pulls the discarded photo album over, looks over the pictures, and he weeps. He truly mourns, maybe for the first time, for the life he could have had. When dawn breaks, he places the scrapbook back on the shelf, this time among the other titles, like a badge of honor, and grabs the photo off the mantlepiece. For a second, he thinks he can hear her voice.

Don’t be afraid, Jack. Love always forms, like a Pearl, around the hardened bits of life.

He falls into his bed, thoroughly exhausted—his brain vaguely thinks of you, thinks of what to do next—with Champ, with your memory, with the thinly veiled threat and the security cameras that may have hid something more. He decides to run his own sort of recon mission, breaking into Larson's security detail to gather more information that may lead to your recovered memory. A hunch in the back of his mind tells him Deathbrook may also be involved, though he hasn't heard from them in weeks, and at points he truly wonders if the man was actually dead. Still, with the plan in place, he falls into one of the first dreamless sleeps he’s had in decades. Even his phone chiming, several text messages lighting the screen, doesn’t wake him up.

“The Pearl is the queen of gems and the gem of queens.”

“But soon enough,”

“you’ll hear her screams.”

TAGLIST: @ophelialoveshandsomemen @ksd24670 @rosiefridayrogersunday @evelynseventyr @ajeff855 @thewintersoldierswife @knowledgefulbutterfly @amneris21 @sarahjkl82-blog @hellovanessax @darling-din @rebel-fanfare​ @tobealostwanderer @randomness501 @farfromjustordinary​ @outlawedmando​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedrostories​ @solemnlyswearss​ @mandocrasis​ @raspberrymama​ @pjkimrn​ @kirsteng42​ @ladykatakuri​ @marydjarin @donnaa @eri16​ @curiouskeyboard​ @frankiemoraleswifexo​

[themand0lorian]

FLUFFTOBER DAY 25-CUDDLING AND SNUGGLING

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

Summary: Marcus Pike is a fixer.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x GN!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: PG-13 (Swearing, Narcos-level violence and discussion)

Words: ~800 (also on AO3)

Tags: mentions of illness (cold) and medicine, food and drink mention

Notes: Did I write this because I'm sick and want cuddles? You decide.

Marcus was always a fixer. Proactive. A problem solver. He was first in his pack to get the Emergency Preparedness patch in cub scouts. He was quick to volunteer when his teacher needed someone to walk a sick student to the nurse. When the heater in his dorm stopped working in the middle of the night, he tinkered with it until he found the broken coil. He replaced the batteries in the smoke detector before it beeped to remind him, he sharpened his pencils before they got dull, he never let his gas tank get below half full. It was one of the many things you loved about him.

So when you texted him that you had gone home sick at lunch, he knew just what to do. He stopped by the pharmacy, picking up every type of cold medicine available—pills, liquids, patches, lozenges, all made their way into his reusable shopping bag. He got some crackers and some electrolyte drinks, some cans of soup, boxes of tissues with lotion in them. He went to the café down the street and picked up a quart of soup and a large hot tea with honey on his way to your place. He was ready. Or so he thought.

Seeing you curled into bed, surrounded by a mountain of tissues with the lights turned off and the blankets pulled to your ears practically broke his heart. You had moaned in response when he let himself in; he followed the trail of your discarded work outfit until he found you in bed, and he got to work.

“Baby—do you want pills or liquid medicine? You should take something—” he places his hand on your forehead; despite shivering under the blankets, you’re burning up.

“I did already,” you croak, eyes barely opened.

“Okay, well how about some tea? Or some soup? I got it from the café, I can heat it up—”

“I’m not hungry, Marcus,” you whine; you’re being a little petulant, but your nose is angry and inflamed and your throat burns and your head feels like it might explode; he knows you just need a little bit of care, that your sour mood is matching your sour health.

“Okay, how about some crackers? Or some water? You need to get some liquids in you—” You burry your face into the pillow with a whine, so he sits on the bed, pulling out the last few items in his bag. He’s almost exhausted all his options. “Will you at least take some of these nice tissues? It’ll help your nose,” he offered gently. A hand darted from the covers, grabbing one tissue; he heard you blow your nose into it, then it got tossed in the pile on the floor. He frowned, furrowing his brow; for the first time, he was all out of ideas.

“What do you need, baby? How can I help you? I—I want to help you, tell me what you need,” he pleads gently, running a soothing hand over your shoulder. You peek up from the pillow with a look that breaks him in half.

“You,” you rasp. It’s the one thing he didn’t plan on, but immediately, he strips himself of his clothes, climbing into bed with you. You pull yourself to him instantly; curled into his side like a loyal dog, head on his shoulder where you fit just right.

“Warm—so warm,” you hum, and he begins to play with your hair, pulling it away from your face and neck. It’s oily and disgusting, but you don’t have enough energy to protest, melting further into his touch as you snuggle that much closer.

“Thank you,” you mumble into his chest. Enough time has passed with you two intertwined, the blinds drawn and his hand running over your back that he thought you fell asleep. “’m sorry if I get you sick.”

“Don’t be sorry, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your heated forehead. “A cold is worth it if it means I get to help you, and get some nice snuggles in the process.” You make a noncommittal noise; he knows you well enough to know you’re fighting sleep. “Go to sleep, baby. I’ll be here when you wake up.” He feels you nod into him, your body finally going limp.

Marcus was always a fixer. But now he knows; sometimes he’s the fix, too.

TAGS: @ophelialoveshandsomemen​ @ksd24670​ @rosiefridayrogersunday​ @evelynseventyr​ @ajeff855​ @thewintersoldierswife​ @knowledgefulbutterfly​ @amneris21​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @hellovanessax​  @rebel-fanfare​ @tobealostwanderer​ @randomness501​ @farfromjustordinary​ @outlawedmando​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedrostories​ @solemnlyswearss​ @mandocrasis​ @raspberrymama​ @pjkimrn​ @kirsteng42​ @ladykatakuri​ @marydjarin