ALSO: “tight turtleneck of sin” is my new favorite thing, thank you
LIIIIIIKE
SOMEONE STOP HIM?
HE HAS CLEARLY DECIDED THAT HE’S GONNA WEAR SHIRTS TO DISPLAY THE GUN SHOW TO MAXIMUM ADVANTAGE (A DECISION I APPROVE OF BECAUSE I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO DISTRACTED BY ARMSSSS IN MY ENTIRE LIFE??)
Flynn: mmokay gonna wear shirts to show off the guns for Lucy
Flynn: and like just a little bit to torment Wyatt because I have seen the open mouthed stares to my Super Straight Winks (tm) and it’s not my fault if he hasn’t already worked through his Bi Crisis, I’m doing him a favor
@lucys-preston replied to your post:…fake…married? fAkE MaRrIeD????? FAKE...
whaaAAAAAAT?!!? (they’re trying to kiiiiill me)
Friend, I am already dead and posting this from beyond the grave. We already know from the episode description that he’s going to save her, which was more than enough to do me in, but this????? Fake married??????? If this is a real spoiler I’m suing for my funeral expenses. This is every fanfic I have ever read or written or imagined come to life in full filmed glory and I caNNOT.
PLEASE gift me with the flogan smut. Flynn: Ok bud, let me tell you exactly how you screwed this whole thing up. Wyatt [not even kind of quietly]: Screw. You. Flynn: Not right now thanks but come by my room later [winks] Wyatt: [suddenly rethinking every decision he’s ever made because there’s no reason he should have found that wink so hot]
ahahhaha.
set post-2x07 after a presumable mission full of snark, wyatt getting served gallon jugs of tea by flynn and lucy, and general confusion and frustration and jealousy over their super totally not romantic night together. also tagging @extasiswings because obviously i am, and @sharkflip because imma ease them nice and slow straight into the trashcan.
Wyatt Logan has not had a good day.
In fact, it would be difficult to think when he’s had a worse one, all things considered. It started out with seeing Lucy leaving Flynn’s room this morning with the most satisfied of smiles, which Wyatt frankly did not know for sure meant satisfied or satisfied, but was jealous enough to order Flynn to stay the hell away from her. That was his first mistake, because Flynn has been doing the verbal equivalent of bitchslapping him with a dead fish all day long, and Wyatt (you know, he thinks bitterly, maybe this should not fucking surprise him) keeps walking right into them. Flynn has missed absolutely no opportunity to hit him between the eyes with pointed remarks about Jessica, about Lucy, about what Wyatt does and does not have any right to be jealous about, and to make things worse, Lucy’s been tagging in. You’d barely notice there was a trip to 1919, a police riot, a kidnapped suffragette, and everything else in there. Once they landed the Lifeboat back home, Rufus stalked off in one direction, Flynn and Lucy stalked off in another, and Wyatt, well, Wyatt…
(He’s fairly sure there might not be enough alcohol even in this bunker to make him feel better, but damn if he isn’t going to find out.)
He’s moody and snappish and doesn’t want to go bait at Jessica. He also doesn’t want to go anywhere he might have to see Flynn and Lucy playing footsie (or, you know, not playing footsie). Rufus is thoroughly sick of this avalanche of romantic nonsense from white people with communication problems, and has gone to commiserate with Jiya. That leaves Wyatt to find the most out-of-the-way corner of the bunker he can, the most readily available kind of alcohol, and a plan not to emerge unless to get more.
He’s sat there for a while, sipping steadily, when a shadow wavers on the floor, he hears footsteps, and someone comes around the corner. Of course, it is the person that, of everyone he is crammed into this sardine can with, Wyatt wants to see the absolutely goddamn least, and he gets to his feet fast enough to nearly knock over the beer. “What, think of a few more witty cracks you didn’t get off last time?”
Flynn looks surprised enough that it’s possible he didn’t realize Wyatt was there, and hasn’t in fact returned to play with his food, but of course, he recovers in an instant. “Witty? No, I don’t waste the witty ones on you, Logan.”
“Great.” Wyatt raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Look, just – just go off and – whatever. With Rufus and Lucy.” He can’t quite get – won’t get – his tongue around the fear that Flynn has replaced him, that now he’s bonding with Rufus and he’s whatever with Lucy, they don’t need Wyatt anymore. He’s just a man who loved his wife too much, who got a gift that no one in the history of the world ever does, and has managed to comprehensively make a mess of it. He’s angry and he’s hurt and he’s relieved and heartbroken and it’s all too much. If Flynn is here to jab at his sore spots some more, he’s half-afraid he’ll no longer have the strength to fight back, might just break, and that’s the worst of all.
Flynn raises an eyebrow. “Wasn’t I supposed to stay the hell away from them?”
“Shut up.” Wyatt turns on a heel, only to discover that drinking on an empty stomach has started to kick in, and he’s not completely steady on his feet. “Look, you’ve won, okay? And you’re right. About earlier. There, I said it. Now piss off and leave me alone.”
“I’m going to need you to repeat that, Wyatt.” Trust Garcia Fucking Flynn to be a) utterly relentless, and b) a totally graceless winner. “That you fucked it up and that I was right.”
“Screw you!” Wyatt bursts out savagely. “SCREW YOU! Why won’t you just – ”
Flynn stares him dead in the eye and does the tongue thing that, frankly, he should just not. “Oh? Well, I know you know where my room is, after you were lurking outside it earlier to ambush Lucy. You’re welcome to stop by too.”
That, to say the least, is not the response Wyatt was waiting for. He feels as if he’s run into a rope at neck level and been clotheslined to the ground (which is his usual state of being when dealing with this tall son of a bitch, unfortunately). He opens his mouth very wide. Nothing comes out except a faint sputtering noise. Finally he manages, “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” Flynn takes a step. “You’ve been very concerned about what’s going on inside it. You’re welcome to make a more personal inspection.”
“I – “ Wyatt raises a hand to push Flynn away, which misses his arm by a solid six inches. God, he feels like that fifteen-year-old kid who weighed a hundred and thirty soaking wet, before he filled out in the latter two years of high school. Sees Michael Young’s eyes gleaming at him under the bleachers, tastes the cheap beer on his tongue, I’m dead if Dad finds out, wondering if his father could see it on his face, Wayne Logan don’t raise no queers. His heart is hammering. He wants to hit Flynn, that’s what he wants. His fist clenches in anticipation.
Flynn looks down at him slowly and thoroughly, taking note of his (to say the least) frazzled state. A smirk curls up the edges of his mouth. “This,” he remarks. “This is just a tragedy.”
“Shut. Up.” Wyatt makes a good fist this time, makes both, and pushes Flynn hard in the shoulders. He doesn’t even budge. “Get away from me, you dick. Go away and torment someone else.”
Flynn does the tongue thing again, far more deliberately. Their faces are not that far apart in the dimness, and Wyatt’s pulse sounds like a jackhammer in his ears. “It’s more fun tormenting you.”
“I hate you.” Wyatt shoves him again (it’s definitely a shove, he doesn’t half-grab Flynn’s shirt or anything stupid like that, so he’s not sure how he ends up holding onto it). This time, he actually makes Flynn move, knocks him off balance a little, feels a searing thrill of entirely undeserved victory. They shift, grapple around on each other, and Wyatt loses his balance. Falls back heavily into the wall, pulling Flynn with him, and –
The next instant, Flynn’s hands come up to catch behind Wyatt’s head, Wyatt is jerking him down with both of his own, and they almost break each other’s noses. It’s not a kiss so much as a shared open-mouthed snarl, teeth scraping and tongues jabbing and warfare waged between their lips, as Flynn hoists Wyatt up further against the wall and pins him there as if in the prelude to slamming him (in one way or another). Wyatt is absolutely sure he does not want to be doing this, should never have done this, will regret ever having done it, and yet he is completely unable to stop. Flynn’s mouth is hot and strong and totally relentless, and at least while Wyatt is occupying it, it cannot be used for more annoying remarks, which is some sort of a win. It burns like fire and it’s a good way to be angry at him and god. God.
(Does Flynn kiss Lucy like this, Wyatt wonders? Domineering and brutal and devouring? Or does he kiss her as gently as spring rain, and melt like a snowflake under her touch?)
(Wyatt doesn’t care. Either way, he hates it. And definitely not because he’s half-imagining what it might be like to be in the middle of that.)
There’s nothing but hisses and grunts and gasps for another several moments, neither of them seemingly willing or able to pull away (because, you know, that might mean the other won, and they can’t have that). Then there’s another noise from the head of the hallway, this one totally exasperated in nature, and they drag their faces away to see Denise Christopher standing there with a look on her own that really, she deserves to have. After all this drama about who is kissing and/or sleeping with who, after the Time Team have been a bunch of horny teenagers in every apparent combination, after she is the only one abiding by the no-getting-laid, we-gotta-save-the-world stuff, after Wyatt and Flynn have been two of the biggest offenders in this department –
Denise stares at them with an I don’t know what I expected sort of look, and shakes her head. Then she very deliberately turns away, clearly doing her best to scrub that image from her brain, and vanishes around the corner. A distinct whiff of judgment lingers behind her.
Slowly, Flynn puts Wyatt down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, breath knocked out but arrogance undimmed. “Well,” he says, low and rasping. “I’ll leave you to get on with your evening, then.”
With that, he saunters away around the corner (in the opposite direction from Denise), leaving Wyatt sagged against the wall, sweating profusely, and trying desperately to will away the most inconvenient and unwanted boner since the one he had in ninth grade for Ms. Taylor the hot math teacher. He wipes his mouth once and then again. It still feels burned and bruised and seared. It’s hard to imagine it fading soon. Or, in fact, at all.
On the off chance you’re still taking prompts, can I submit to you this mess: She supposed it made sense - in a weird, hilariously unfunny cosmic joke kind of way - that if her first time with Wyatt Logan was on silk sheets next to a roaring fire and surrounded by the glamour of Hollywood in the early 40s, that her first time with Garcia Flynn would be on a worn and frayed blanket hastily tossed on the floor of a possible murder’s basement in 1917
Hoooooo.
As you said, this is roughly in 2x07 when they are presumably on their first foursome mission to the suffragettes. Under the cut because it dir-tay.
Lucy doesn’t know what she is doing, and she doesn’t have any illusions that it is a good idea, and altogether, it would make plenty more sense to stop. They came down here on Grace Humiston’s orders -- “Mrs. Sherlock Holmes,” as if Lucy needed another amazing historical lady to melt down over -- and it’s about as far from the air of passionate romance as could be imagined. No silk sheets, no comfortable bed, just an old blanket on the floor, and a world that has tilted, tilted, tilted out from under her, and all she wants is for it to stop spinning. And when she clutched onto Garcia Flynn and dragged his head down and kissed him, hard enough that their noses mashed and their mouths slipped and her head was strained back and her tiptoes scraped --
Well.
Lucy is on her back, skirt rucked up around her knees, and Flynn is on top of her, bracing his weight on his elbows. She grips his head in both hands, pulling his mouth to hers, half-drunk on the knowledge that she has done this, she has ordered and orchestrated every bit of it, and he has followed in perfect harmony. Is this her Rittenhouse blood, she wonders, even as she tips her head back and directs him to pay attention to her throat, which he does with his usual extenuating care and precision for detail? This delight in power and control and knowing that she owns a dangerous man’s soul? She knows this is not healthy, has plenty of unresolved feelings over Wyatt -- but she doesn’t think that he and Jessica are just playing tiddlywinks behind closed doors, and she’s angry, and Flynn adores her, she doesn’t want to use him but she wants to use him like this, and it’s a mess, a beautiful, shattering mess --
“Lucy,” he mumbles, mouth against her throat, where he can clearly feel the hammering of her pulse. “Lucy, should we -- “
Lucy responds by dragging his mouth to hers again, biting off his words, the kiss slick and wet and scraping, teeth and lips and tongues, mouths open and devouring each other’s air. He shifts, getting her into his arms and rolling them over so he’s the one beneath her, as Lucy straddles him and looks down at him like this, on his back, completely shivering and gulping and undone. Leans forward slowly, plants the heels of her hands on either side of his head, and brings her mouth almost to his again. Testing to see if he will leap up and claim it before she gives him the word. Will he?
The veins stand out on his neck. A bead of sweat runs from beneath the flip of his dark hair, his eyes are almost black. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move. He just stares up at her, utterly mesmerized, and waits for her wishes. It’s like a key turned. Here he is, this large and powerful and often-homicidally-inclined man, yielding himself utterly to her. You’d have to be some kind of inhuman not to find that desperately delicious, and she is not. Or perhaps she is.
Lucy smiles -- good -- and grinds more deliberately on him. These period suits are, of course, an awfully good look, but they don’t really have time and this is not a whole night in Hedy Lamarr’s glam villa. If she is going to get this done before she comes to her senses, she has to keep moving, and she fumbles at the buckle of his belt, shucks the waistband of his trousers down over his lean hips, and hitches up her skirt. Then reaches down, cups him lightly, and discovers that the sound Garcia Flynn makes when she has him literally in the palm of her hand is one she enjoys beyond all reason.
Lucy rolls her hips, dragging them on him, as she reaches under her skirt and slides her panties down one leg, then kicks them off. Flynn reaches up with both hands to cup her waist, lifting her, the blanket bunched and skidding beneath him, and Lucy wraps her arms around his shoulders as he sits half-upright. They remain like that for a few breathless, dazzled moments. Then he shifts, nudging at her, and she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care, she wants to be reckless herself. Be selfish. Just for godforsaken once.
Lucy reaches down between them, takes hold of his hand, and guides it between her legs, her thighs tightening briefly to grip his and a choked breath catching in both their throats as he touches her. She’s already very wet, but he glides the pad of his thumb over her clit a few times, clearly willing to prepare her as much as she wants, but likewise aware that they need to be quick about this. He rolls agilely to his feet and pulls her with him, she tightens her grip on his shoulders, and he lifts her, her legs wrapping around his waist. Then he pushes her back against the wall, she hitches a knee alongside his hip, and reaches down to guide him into her.
Flynn swears, mouth open in short, heaving gulps against her sweaty hair, as Lucy closes her eyes and presses her face into his neck, their hearts hammering. She eases him into her, feeling small jerks and flutters in her stomach, spreading her hips -- yes, there, yes, inside, hot and hard and solid as a rock, pushing deeper and then deeper as she hisses and he immediately stops. “Did I...”
“No.” Lucy wants this to hurt, just a little, just enough scrape and rough and friction to know it’s not a fever dream, as she drags her mouth against his. “Garcia. Garcia, please.”
Half a smile, barely glimpsed, eyes hooded and dark, one hand gripping her thigh and the other under her ass, her arms around his shoulders as he resumes finding his way into her, comes to rest hilt-deep and swears again, biting at the shell of her ear. He appears to be able to hold her up like a feather, and she can feel the intensity of his restraint, still held back, waiting for her to say how much she wants. The rain, or the thunder, or the tempest.
(The tempest, Lucy thinks. God, the tempest. But they don’t have time.)
She claws at him, muffles a groan into his shoulder at the feeling of him, the sweet burn on the very edge of too much, kissing his mouth and his cheek and his jaw and whatever part of him she can find. He starts to move, quick, purposeful thrusts that slick and rasp, as she tightens her legs around his waist and can feel the strain and bunch of his muscles. She feels imprinted, entangled, fused and melted, starving and drunk, uttering small gasps in the back of her throat that drive Flynn harder. It is like she has imagined (because of course she has imagined it) and it’s not. Rittenhouse’s precious prodigal princess, fucking Garcia Flynn, Time Terrorist, in the basement of some New York tenement slum. Yes, Lucy thinks. Oh yes. This is mine. So is he. So is he.
(That burns in her, and so does he, so does he, and the world no longer shakes.)
