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Rebecca Rittenhouse -- 400*640
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Rebecca Rittenhouse
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qqueenofhades · 6 years
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Please please please write more steamy Garcy action!
Welp.
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The combination of this prompt and the above shot from the promo was very bad, so…. have an absolutely will-not-be-remotely-canon, total shipper trash version of Salem, for reasons. Because apparently the combination of Lucy + Flynn + Salem results in nothing but smut for my muse.
Rated E.
AO3.
The summer night wind pulls at Lucy’s skirt as she ismarched down the path, escorted by a pair of Pilgrim’s Progress extras in their black hats and high starchedcollars, a sea of eerie earthbound stars twinkling to every side. Of coursethey’re not actually stars, they’re torches, clutched by the fearful populaceof Salem gathered on Gallows Hill, and the rope strung from an old tree wherefive days ago, on July 19, 1692, Sarah Good, Elizabeth Howe, Susannah Martin, SarahWildes, and Rebecca Nurse were hanged. There will be another round of hangingsin about a month, Lucy recalls, until the trials burn themselves out as quicklyas they’ve started, in October. This still all seems rather academic to her.She wasn’t expecting to it to come this far, but she isn’t that concerned.She’ll get out of this.
Admittedly, she’s not certain how, and she would like tohave a few more options. She’s been separated from the boys, and she isn’t surethey know where she is, which is alarming. She isn’t sure she can pull the H.H.Holmes oracle trick to stop them – Holmes, psychotic as he was, was still onlyone man. This is a mob. Not to mention, that will serve as proof positive ofwitchcraft, and good luck fighting her way through all of them alone. Lucy’scontributions to the team are not of the brute-force and multiple-weaponsvariety. For the first time, her stomach turns over in genuine apprehension. Where are Wyatt and Rufus?
(She thinks for half a minute that the most effective one ofthem here would be Flynn, but there’s no way he’s coming.)
A low, ugly murmur is starting to rise by the time Lucy andher guards reach the hanging tree, and they come to a halt. Cotton Mather,looking more smug and punchable than ever, is standing nearby in his vicar’sstock, swelled with pride, ready to preside over another essential measure insaving the souls of Salem’s impressionable citizens. Lucy has a generous viewof the past, for the most part. Knows that it’s always more complicated thansimplistic pictures would like to paint it. Given the modern world’s irrationalbeliefs and panics and scapegoating, she’s not even about to point too many fingersat the ability of the Salemites to convince themselves that these women arewitches, servants of Satan, and their existence depends on killing themimmediately. But the faces watching her are huddled and hard and blank withhatred. Parents clutch their children close. There are kids here? Probably a vital moral lesson for them or something. Thehell. Never mind the historical relevancy and comparative morality and whateverelse. These people have problems.
Peter Puritan, on her left side, steps forward and makes aflourish at Mather. “Behold Goodwife Preston,” he booms. Too bad communitytheater isn’t a thing in seventeenth-century New England, he would be great atit. “The Court of Oyer and Terminer has judged beyond all doubt that this womanis guilty of the abominable sin of witchcraft, and – ”
“You haven’t tried me!” Lucy says loudly, earning shocked and scathing looks. “You’ve – this is a miscarriage of justice, it’s – ”
This is pathetic. Of courseit’s a miscarriage of justice, and there are still at least two monthsuntil anyone gives a shit about it. “I want to speak to Colonel NathanielSaltonstall,” Lucy plunges on. “I – I know him, he – ”
“Silence, witch!” Paul Puritan, from the other side, looksas if he’s aiming a blow at her, which Lucy instinctively ducks. Her heart isstarting to pound. All right, this is cutting it too close. She’s more thanready for Wyatt and Rufus to turn up on whatever improvised rescue missionthey’ve definitely contrived, and her eyes sweep the crowd, in case they’repulling the Will Turner trick (though a hat with a fancy feather woulddefinitely stick out). The trials do arrest a few men for being accomplices.Are they across town in some other jail?
Is nobody coming?
Lucy starts looking around, wondering if there’s a plank shecan grab or anything else to improvise as a weapon. But while she’s doing this,she’s losing time as Mather reads out whatever canned indictment Rittenhousemust have provided him with – is this thepoint, she doesn’t think her own mother will actually let her get killed, arethey going to swoop in as convenient saviors as the last moment? Is it possiblethat even Rittenhouse doesn’t know where she is? If she’s relying on them to pull her ass out of this –
“Remove your mob cap, witch,” Peter Puritan orders her. “Doyou have any last confession or recantation of your heretical views, before youface the proper punishment for your crime?”
“I’m not a witch.” Lucy’s voice isn’t as loud as she wants.“None of them are witches! You’re killing innocent women, you – ”
Unfortunately, true as this is, everyone sees the defense ofaccused and executed witches as, well, proof of witchcraft. There’s amaddeningly circular illogic to this entire thing, and the gasp that thisutterance provokes is followed by a shout. “HANG THE WITCH!”
Oh, please, Lucythinks frantically. You’ve got to bekidding me. Come on, past. I’m literally fighting to save your entireexistence. Do me a solid.
The past does not, in fact, do her a solid. The shoutspreads, quick as poison, and in that, Lucy can feel the final dam break. PeterPuritan reaches for the strings of her cap – she will be literally exposedbefore the crowd, die bare-headed and stripped of her shame and modesty – andLucy twists away, even as he pulls at the knots and jerks it off. Her hairtumbles out, as Paul Puritan grabs her and pushes her toward the hanging noose.Lucy kicks and snaps, trying to head-butt him, and feels her ear scrape as hejerks the rough hemp down around her neck. She stumbles on a loose board,briefly terrifying her that she’ll hang herself by accident like a clumsyidiot. The crowd is literally baying for her blood, Cotton Mather’s eyes aretwo piggy black sparks, and chasing Rittenhouse has made her believe in onekind of evil, but this is altogether another – she is actually going to die, and –
“LUCY!”
Her heart stops for a full beat in her chest, as the bellowrings out across the rising tide of madness and momentarily halts even Peterand Paul in their tracks. Her eyes sweep across the crowd, looking desperatelyfor Wyatt, even as she doesn’t think that sounds like Wyatt. But how – but how –
Garcia Flynn punches down a final minion trying to stop himand bulls into the middle of the mob like a runaway locomotive, charging acrossthe ground and toward the gallows. Peter and Paul recollect themselvessufficiently from their shock to try to grab him, which is a very bad idea.Flynn decks Peter with one punch and judo-throws Paul, sending himsomersaulting off the gallows with a squelchy noise. His violence is economicand brutal and effortless, almost mesmerizing – Lucy has seen it many times, ofcourse, but usually as something she has to stop or redirect or otherwiseprevent from its fullest potential. Now, for the first time she can remember,it is entirely focused on her – not as its target, but its purpose. For a wildmoment, it feels like Flynn is some strange avatar of her own rage, the way shewould fight if she wasn’t a five-foot-five history professor who had neverhandled a gun in her life until she shot Jesse James. How is he here. How is he – how is he here?
Right now, Lucy doesn’t care. Flynn reaches her in the nextinstant and practically wrenches the noose off her neck, scraping her earagain, and she stumbles forward, clutching hold of his waistcoat. The Salemiteshave been briefly and totally stunned by what looks like the wrathfulmaterialization of the Devil Himself to pluck one of his concubines from thebrink, and Lucy’s historian’s brain has a moment of wondering if this is goingto make the trials even worse. Causes and consequences, short-and-long-termeffects, all the shit she can’t stop thinking about even when her own life isat stake – but God, she was scared, she’s only realizing just now how much, andFlynn – and Flynn –
She can’t bring herself to let go of him, even as Flynnhalf-wraps her in his jacket and hauls her toward the edge of the gallows. Butat this point, Cotton Mather has – unfortunately – recovered himself. “DEVIL!”he booms. “I DEFY THEE, SATAN! I DEFY THEE!”
Despite everything, Flynn has almost a sardonic grin on hisface, just visible in the flickering torchlight, as if even this isn’t theworst thing he has been called. Mather raises his missal, bellowing what soundslike something intended to make Flynn vanish in a puff of brimstone, but whichdoes nothing of the sort, because of course not. The Salemites are confused andterrified to see their vaunted spiritual leader so utterly overmatched, andLucy’s ankle twists under her as Flynn drags her off the gallows. Mather takesa step, as if realizing that God has left him out to dry on this one and it’stime for more physical weapons. He grabs for the truncheon at Peter Puritan’sbelt. “Prince of Lies! I will not allow you to – ”
Flynn, keeping hold of Lucy with one arm, plunges his freehand into his leather jacket, removes a gun, and shoots Cotton Goddamn Matherin the head. It sounds like thunder.
Mather goes down hard, as Lucy screams and muffles it in herhand. Mather is one of history’s most unpleasant racist and misogynisticjackasses, it’s not like this is a terrible loss, and maybe with theintellectual architect of the witch trials gone, Salem will come to its senses.Or it will become convinced that he was completely right all along, with Luciferhimself in their midst, and double down. Lucy isn’t sure if Mather’s dead –Flynn didn’t get a clean hit, just a glancing one – and they have no time to besure. Flynn throws her over his shoulder, and runs, fittingly, like the devil.
He doesn’t stop until they’re well away, somewhere deep inSalem Woods, also known as the Witches’ Wood, and the noise and shout and totaldisorder of Gallows Hill has faded to a distant, dreamy clamor. Flynn stumblesto a halt, pulls Lucy down, and practically throws her against the nearesttree. She has never seen his face look like this. “Are you – did they – ”
“Stop,” Lucy chokes out. “Stop, Flynn. Flynn. Flynn! Garcia!I’m fine. I’m fine!”
This is more or less the truth – aside from her scraped ear,twisted ankle, and hammering heart, she’s physically undamaged, thanks to histimely intervention, but the mental shock is going to take longer to set in.His hands are practically bruising her shoulders, he belatedly realizes it, andloosens them a fraction. His dark hair is tousled, there’s an abrasion on hischeek, and his knuckles are scraped. He has clearly been fighting the entiretown to get to her.
Lucy, to say the least, has no idea how to react to this. Itsays something about how successfully he has convinced her that he hates thesight of her and will never forgive her that she ranked Rittenhouse a morelikely rescuer than him. But it’s him here, face frantic in the moonlight,still completely unable to put up a pretense or façade. “Lucy,” he says again,barely more coherently. “I – Lucy. I thought – ” He stops. Straining madly forhis usual brusque dismissal, he says, “How could you be so foolish as to – ”
“It’s my faultthat the place literally known for murdering slightly strange innocent womenwas about to murder me, a slightly strange innocent woman?” Lucy flares. Shecannot believe him. He has hauled her bodily from certain death and badlywounded or killed Cotton Mather in doing it, and now of course he’s going to bea dick about it. “If you actually think so, I’m happy to walk back there andlet them finish the job!”
This of course is a bluff, as she’s going nowhere near them,but it turns Flynn’s face a sick white. His grip tightens convulsively on her,her toes practically dangling off the ground, and she shoves at him until heputs her down. They stare at each other for a crackling moment. She wants toask him where Wyatt and Rufus are, but the words get stuck. He looks disheveledand frantic and still not quite able to look away from her face. He half-raiseshis hand as if to touch it, remembers himself, and stops. His chest heaves.Quieter, he says, “Don’t ever do that again.”
Lucy opens her mouth, to shoot back any of the obviousrejoinders about how she is not going to have much choice in their present lineof work, and besides, it’s a considerable shock to hear he gives a shit. Onceagain, the words don’t make it that far. It is not only the fear and adrenalineof the near-hanging and dramatic rescue that is making her heart keep up itspresent pace. His face is quite close to hers, and it wouldn’t be hard. To juststep up, and –
(Lucy feels something for Wyatt beyond any doubt. Somethingwarm and alluring and tender, something she could see turning into somethingmore, a foundation to build on, a home to come to, strong and sweet and real.She always has.)
(Lucy also feels something for Flynn beyond any doubt.Something raw and dark and hungry, something she can’t see turning intoanything but the crash of a devouring sea that would take her and drown her,pull her under. This is nothing to build on, cannot move forward, strikes likelightning and burns, burns, burns. She always has.)
The witch and the Devil in the woods at midnight, Lucythinks. It is almost surreal, the way the crickets shirr, the starlight issharp and cold, and in the distance, men who want to kill them chant like Moriadrums. Is she not a witch? She knows their future, she’s traveled here from it,she has seen and done things that defy explanation in her own time, not merelythose. They have wanted to kill her for it, but something else is surging inher now. She wants that power, in a way. And the fear. That moment when Flynnwas decking Peter Puritan, when she felt it as if it was her arm, as if he washer and she was him and both of them were two strange halves of a twisted andtorn-apart creature –
Lucy boosts herself on her tiptoes, grabs Flynn by themostly-undone cravat, and kisses him.
It’s not like kissing Wyatt. That is generous, easy, gentle,knowing she will be caught when she jumps over the edge. This is flingingherself into the abyss without a rope, with no idea what kind of reaction itwill provoke. Flynn could do literally anything, and as a rule in his life,has. But this Lucy, the Lucy who’s so fucking furious at her mother she can’tbreathe, who has spent every waking moment sacrificing for everyone else, who wants to be the one to do the reckless,idiotic thing for once, doesn’t care. This is a dangerous man, and she isn’tabout to romanticize or underestimate that. But if nothing else – if there’sanything she’s taking away from her recent near-death experience – she is alsoa dangerous woman.
Flynn, for his part, is too floored to do anything at all.His hands windmill feebly in the air, and he remains briefly inert against her,until Lucy wonders if she’s completely mistaken and there isn’t whatever there is between them, whatevershe thought there was. His mouth is a hard seam of granite, grim and ungenerousand guarded like a castle wall, just like the rest of him. Just then, for thatinstant, it feels like kissing a statue.
In the next, it doesn’t. His hands clamp onto her face,pulling her head up almost hard enough to strain her neck – well, he’s a fullfoot taller than she is, something’s got to give, something has to bridge thedistance, in more ways than one. He kisses like he punches: he takes noprisoners, he doesn’t waste time on peripheral targets, and it feels liable toknock you out if you run into it too hard. Her hands come up, clutching hiswrists, as their noses mash and their teeth scrape and they bite each other’slips, too used to conflict to come easily into convergence. Lucy isn’t evensure she is enjoying it, exactly. Just that she can’t stop.
It’s Flynn who breaks the kiss (if such a polite,sweet-sounding word can be used to dignify the proceedings) after a gasping,gulping moment. He clearly thinks the insanity of the Salemites must becontagious. “Lucy – ”
Oddly enjoyable as it is to hear her name in his mouth likethat, the way his accent sometimes thickens in moments of heightened emotion,Lucy Preston rarely gets the chance to outright do stupid things, and shedoesn’t feel like losing this one. She takes a step, grabbing his lapels, herloosened hair falling around her face, dark shadows on the paleness. She feelsa little demonic herself, breathing enchantment, whispering spells, and it’s aneven more enjoyable feeling, the tremor that runs through him, the knowledgethat she could break that desperate self-control with not much more than aflick. Witches are known to have sex with the devil, after all. It’s one of themajor features by which you can identify them. How, God knows, but Lucy isn’treally interested in the logistics. Just this. Her monster.
(He’s not, he’s not a monster, she hasn’t thought that for along time now, and yet. She hungers. She hungers.)
(Perhaps the monster is her.)
(She doesn’t altogether mind.)
They stare at each other for a dazzled moment longer, andthen Lucy’s grip changes, turns possessive, as she pulls him closer again.Flynn resists for a valiant split-second longer, and then she can feel himsnap. They are two people with, to say the least, a volatile history, who havehad some sort of connection from the start and whose chemistry has always beenundeniable, who have been spending a lot of time (at least on someone’s Garbage Lord part) insistingthey hate each other now. Of course it was going to become inevitable.
Flynn kisses her ferociously, hand curling behind her head,fingers brushing her scraped ear, but Lucy doesn’t care. Her arms tangle aroundhis neck, they overbalance, and slide down the trunk of the tree into the softmoss at the bottom. Flynn comes down heavily on top of Lucy, catching hisweight on an elbow just in time, as well as tangling in her skirts. It’s awonder anyone gets to the actual fornication part around here, given the amountof clothing, but Lucy happens to know that Puritans hump like rabbits. Don’tlet the buttoned-up religious zealot image fool you. This – sneaking off for atryst in the woods, in the ditches, in the fields, anywhere away from the whiteclapboard house and the judgment of the church – is far from uncommon. And allof that is alarming, if it’s what they’re doing, but it appears they are.
Breathless and entangled, Flynn sprawled between her legs,his head resting almost on her chest, they struggle to sit up halfway, stillkissing, grunting and whimpering between breaths, as he rakes her bottom lipwith his teeth. Lucy wrestles him into a better angle, as he puts down one handto brace himself and strokes her neck with the other, running his callusedthumb up the hollow of her throat and onto her cheek, half-tender despite theheat of their kiss. His eyelashes flutter. The look on his face is unspeakable.This is probably the first time he’s kissed anyone since his wife died. Lucywonders if he’s seeing the ghost of a dead woman in her face – or if he’s not.
It still doesn’t matter. His mouth leaves one more long,hungry brand on hers, then breaks off, venturing down her chin, the undersideof her jaw, as he tugs aside the torn white collar. Lucy shudders from head totoe, even as his free hand has successfully made it under the skirts and isrunning up the slim line of her thigh. As much clothing as Puritans wear ontop, they wear less below. Lucy has made it a policy of retaining her ownunderwear, but aside from a petticoat, there’s not much in Flynn’s way.
She shifts position, crawling onto his lap, shucking hisheavy coat and hearing a thump as it hits the ground with his gun still inside.She may regret that if they are abruptly caught by the Puritans, but then,public indecency would definitely get them arrested, so Flynn will be punchingsomeone anyway. This is insane, this is insane, this is insane, and for a moment, Lucy wonders if she’s actually beingbewitched, that the moon is rising in Salem Wood on a seventeenth-centurysummer night and she’s fallen sideways out of reality. But that is her lifeevery day now. This is something still more.
It doesn’t take long until Lucy’s skirts are hiked up aroundher hips, Flynn’s trousers have been unbuttoned, and if either of them aregoing to stop this before it goes past the point of no return, it has to benow. But Flynn’s hand has almost reached the top of her thigh, and Lucy isgoing to lose her mind if they don’t, and this is going to solve nothing at alland will probably result in their relationship being even more fraught. But it still doesn’t matter. Nothing does except him,and them, and this. She pushes Flynn onto his back, hooks her panties off herankle, and picks her skirts up. Their eyes meet, in a moment of silentquestion. It’s not entirely clear who’s asking who.
Flynn gives half a jerky nod, hands already reaching for herhips, pulling her closer, as Lucy straddles him, knees pressing into the softloam on either side of his thighs. The first intimate brush is practicallymaddening, and she reaches down, taking hold of him in her hand, stroking tipand shaft with her thumb. Then she shifts, guides him in the darkness, andslides him slowly into her, hard and hot and solid. Her fingers slip on him andher, this raw and elemental communion, like druids coupling in the shadow of astanding stone. This ritual, this old magic of man and woman, has beenpracticed for thousands upon thousands of years.
Lucy utters a faint whimper in her throat as she settlesfully onto him, opening her hips, feeling him sliding deeper and deeper untiltheir bodies are entirely given to the other. She leans forward, breathcatching, as she rolls her hips, then plants her hands on his shoulders as shethrusts. He reaches up to grab her wrists, meeting her halfway with a thrust ofhis own, hard enough to send something haywire inside her. She sees sparks. Shegulps and swears, eyes closed, sweat beading in her hair and rolling down theback of her neck. Hitches herself up, drags herself against him, and bends downalmost on all fours, riding out the long shudder of frisson and friction. Hegrips her harder. Her head comes down close to his as she fucks him thoroughly,her hair hanging in his face. He snarls and lunges for her mouth.
As they kiss again, Flynn comes up beneath her like acyclone, flips them over, and catches hold of her hands, shoving them over herhead, as he thrusts into her practically to the back of her spine. One of hishands pulls loose from hers and gets hold of her thigh instead, pushing itwider. Every time Lucy thinks the next stroke can’t keep coming, can’t be moreintense, it is, rutting and jerking. Her free hand claws at him, searching forpurchase in this mad, mad universe, when she fears she has been tipped off theedge and it is a very long way down. Bunch and burst and buck, her back presseddown into the loam, Flynn’s hips coiling and loosening for a final, wrackingheave. He has given up on any feeble denial whatsoever that he does not want todo exactly this. He mounts her once more, strong and lithe and ruthless as atiger, and then starts to lose it altogether.
Lucy isn’t sure if she orgasms, so much as she reaches apoint where her body simply cannot take a single instant more of sensation andstimulation and breathless need, the system overloads, has to call a halt andstart again. Her mouth is open, head thrown back on the leaves, gaspingfruitlessly, her body shaking and blazing. It’s like standing too close to anopen bonfire, not so much soft and pleasurable as searing and primal. She thinksthat perhaps, the Salemites have gotten their wish. She has, in fact, beenburned alive.
It is a very long moment until either of them can even thinkabout moving. Flynn is still inside her, pulsing and softening, until he jerksout of her abruptly enough to make her feel bereft. He sits back on his knees,pulling his trousers up and fumbling with the buttons. Lucy lies where she is,still not quite able to move, as he steals a brief, shamefaced look at her andreaches out to pull down her skirts, as if hiding the evidence will deny it everhappened. His hands are shaking, faintly but relentlessly. He wipes his mouth .“Lucy,”he says hoarsely, the first thing either of them have managed since thismadness started. “We should go.”
Slowly, head rushing as she does, Lucy sits up. She can’tquite get enough air, due to a combination of the obvious and never havinggotten around to taking her corset off. Her thighs are slick and her mouthfeels wet and swollen. She is going to have bruises.
“Lucy.” He remains hunched where he is. “Lucy, did I hurtyou?”
Garcia Flynn, as far as she knows, has never asked thatquestion to anyone before. Lucy doesn’t know how to answer. He didn’t, and hedid, and she feels like the white-hot anvil in the forge, and she isn’t sureher knees can bear her weight. She feels both possessed and cleansed. God,where does she even start to understand this.
(Maybe she doesn’t have to. Maybe it just is.)
Flynn is still looking at her. Waiting.
Lucy reaches up to touch his face, cupping her fingersaround his jaw. He turns his head almost reflexively, as if to kiss her palm,and to hide his eyes. She can feel a wetness that is not sweat. He shudderswith the weight of all the tears he is not remotely about to shed. But despitehimself, a few more slip out. He shakes again. He doesn’t make a sound.
Lucy leans forward and kisses his cheek, softly and chastelyafter the carnal heat and fury of their coupling, and tastes the salt on herlips. Then she puts her other hand out, and allows him to help her up. Theygrasp at each other once they’re back on their feet, struggling to steady eachother. He looks at her again. His expression is indescribable.
It’s a strange feeling to know you own a dangerous man’ssoul, but Lucy Preston will be gentle.
“Come on, Garcia,” she whispers. “Let’s go home.”
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