Platonic Joanlock: "I can explain."

--she says, halfway through his bedroom window, a penlight clamped between her teeth.

"Never mind that,” he says, alight with the manic fire and rogue hair of three days without sleep. “You must be interested in resuming your burglary training; I had nearly given up.”

(Let me write you a three-sentence fic?)

Garcy+Comfort

His opinion doesn’t matter, and so she can say things to him. Things like Amy was the one who should have lived and Half the time, when the Lifeboat touches down here, I wish I hadn’t come back.

His opinion doesn’t matter, and so he nods, and offers her the water canteen, and doesn’t make her look him in the eye.

(Let me write you a three-sentence fic?)

This is me bursting through your door to physically beg you to share some "Lucy goes to Flynn when they're enemies but she needs help" stuff.

Fun fact: I have a literal truckload of old S1 Lucy-and-Flynn fic that I wrote while watching the series and never posted. This is an edited sickfic from that archive! 

Warnings for illness, canon-typical S1 dickery on Flynn’s part, guns, death mention, and mentions of injury and violence.

* * *

“Your girl’s here, boss.”

That statement’s only halfway true, but no more need be said.

Karl, long since visibly done with the intricacies of their tangling, leads him to the back door and then shrugs off, shaking his head.

A thousand surly arguments are boiling in his head as he opens the door to confront her–and stops short.

The night beyond the doorway is a dark wall of freezing rain, and in the dim light from inside the safehouse, Lucy Preston stands pressed against the wall, halfway under the pitiful awning. With hair and bloodied dress drenched to the bone, she looks even smaller than usual. She’s visibly wracked by cold shudders, and as the light falls over her face, he sees her eyes–huge, glassy, fevered, and full of dangerous desperation. 

She’s soaked, perfectly still, and pale as death. Against his will, Flynn’s heart lurches. 

“Lucy,” he says only, stiffly, and offers his arm. She won’t look at him as she stumbles forward, sagging with relief–one white, trembling hand fastens around his upper arm, and Flynn wraps his forearm behind her to keep her steady. The knobs of her spine stick out under his fingertips.

He wants to hold her. He wants to avenge her. He wants to burn this world to the ground.

Instead, he ducks his head to look into her eyes. “Who did this?”

Click.

The hard, distinctive muzzle of a pistol presses into his abdomen. Panting, Lucy breathes, “You’re coming with me.”

He stares at her for a moment, unsure whether to be impressed, or angry, or concerned. Then he clocks her trembling lip, her white-knuckled hand, and her steely eyes, and pride wins out.

“Come in for a minute.” He glances up and down the alley. “I’ll get my coat.”

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14 + Garcy?

Prompt:  the power goes out in our apartment building, but i’m not prepared for this, and you come to check on me

It’s been awhile since I did any fluffy g-rated garcy au, so let’s slowly get back into the swing of things. Thanks for the req, friend; I hope you like it.

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He knows the sound of her.

Flynn prefers to read on his apartment balcony in the golden autumn evenings, even as the summer flickers and dies. He has sweaters enough to bear the brisk, and although he’s lived through enough to have earned peace, the muted thunder of the city suits his vigilance better than the tomb-like silence of the apartment itself.

When he first heard her, at the dawn of summer, Flynn had resolved himself to finally surrendering to dark memories, because that song had died in Lorena’s lungs. But this voice had only grown, flowing down from above, and as the long sunset evenings stretched on, he grew to appreciate its brassy, raw and melody. Lorena’s voice, different, had been made for hymns.

He hears her angry, too. There are one-sided arguments just out of his hearing–over the phone, maybe, or with herself. She’s loud, and indignant, and occasionally resigned, and on those days Flynn wonders who could have argued her down.

She gardens. He’s embarked on a survey of Russian literature by the time the autumnal westerlies start blowing flower petals into his face. Flynn looks up one cool night, and with the grace of a trained soldier, catches a rose petal out of the air. They had been velvet once, and are now turning to dust.

The days drag on, and the city quiets, as the parties die with the summer and the snowbirds depart. The occasional dying leaf flutters down from above, but Flynn no longer hears his upstairs neighbor puttering around on her balcony. Her footsteps have always been light, so there’s no way to know if she’s still present. He tries not to think of her too often.

The woman had moved in at the beginning of summer, and as her plants wither, he wonders if she will go out with them.

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Maleval: 15

Prompt: i’m having a snowball fight with my friend in the park and i hit you instead

Okay so we’d been talking about a professors!maleval AU and I HAVE THOUGHTS.

—————————–

A little snow landing on her during her walk to the library is hardly unusual. She insists on taking the route which runs beneath the black oaks, and the previous night’s snowfall cannot be reasonably expected to fully reach the ground in only a few hours’ time.

Still, three harsh impacts on her head and shoulders, in the span of a few steps, seems unnatural. Mal stops short, and right on cue, a familiar cackle breaks out above. She lifts her coldest gaze and scours the black branches, until she catches the black-suited man, nearly invisible, straddling the snowy fork of a tree. 

He grins like a devil. “So sorry, chairwoman. Honest mistake, I swear it.”

“It’s nothing,” she mutters, brushing the snow from her coat. “I should have expected nothing less from you.”

He sags. “Not fair. Aren’t you a meteorologist? I should never have been able to hit you in the first place.”

“Haven’t you got a class?” She says icily. “Or anything better to do?”

“Like anyone comes to my lectures in this weather?” He leans forward to rest on the branch. “Maybe I’ll hold class up here. That should get rid of the last of ‘em.”

Mal smiles.

This is not just any smile. Her eyes go sharp and wide and bright, and her smile is broad and red and containing far too many teeth. She delights in the sudden worry in his eyes, in the knowledge there that she’s just thought of something absolutely terrible.

“Well, Professor Rook, make sure you’re down in time for your tenure review tonight. I know I’m perfectly sick about it.”

She’s satisfied, as she glides away, by the sound of him scrambling down. “Come on, chairwoman!–Wait up.”

Garcy, werewolf AU

“I’ve been trying to claim you’re…domesticated, but my mother isn’t buying it. We have to run.”

The wolf nuzzles against her in gratitude, and Lucy slides a hand beneath the silver collar around his neck.

(I’ll write you a three-sentence au?)

“I’ll get you a fresh change of clothes.” for Garcy?

OH HI YES can I have a song?

My love I have a whole album!! All Things Bright And Beautiful, from Owl City, and specifically the song, “When Can I See You Again?”

Can I request. Just some platonic cuddles. Literally any BROTP. You know my favorites. But. I would pay you in screaming and fangirling if you would gift me with platonic cuddle fic.

My friend, you have been working so hard, you deserve to enjoy some entirely platonic Time Team brot3 Snuggly Goodness. Let the babes be Soft!!

Set between 2.01 and 2.03, no warnings needed.

—————————————–

“Wyatt, I needed to talk about–” 

Denise strides into the common room of the bunker, and stops short. She was certain she’d heard soft chatter, but the place seems to be empty, except for Rufus perched upright on the couch, with his back to her. “Have you seen Wyatt?”

“Shhhhh,” someone says. It’s not Rufus. 

There’s something that sounds oddly like a giggle.

Denise advances a few more steps into the space. There’s no one at the tables, no one in the kitchen, and no one on the weights. She resists the urge to reach for her gun. “Didn’t I told you the next time you jumped at me, my shot wouldn’t miss? I meant it. Out, now.”

“He can’t do that right now,” Lucy’s disembodied voice replies, in a chipper half-whisper. “Lemme come find you later…”

“I’m coming over to that couch,” Denise says loudly, “and everything had better be rated PG.”

Lucy squeaks in embarrassment. “Everything’s fine, it’s just…” She trails off as Denise leans over the couch. “Embarrassing…”

“That couch,” Denise remarks flatly, “is not big enough for three people.”

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For Wyatt Whump: someone calling Wyatt “pretty boy” in front of the rest of the team, oh! Or someone in Rittenhouse referring to him that way: “so much for this pretty face”. Flogan or Wyjess?

Fun fact: I literally made a Happy Gasp when I got this ask, because it’s the BEST IDEA and I love it so much. I went wyjess on this, so I’m tagging @x-voyevoda and @heytheredeann as well :) Set post-Jess’s betrayal, featuring a captured Wyatt, with warnings for violence, blood, and injury.

————————————-

“C’mon, fight back!”

The goon’s fist hits hard, and there’s no way for Wyatt to defend himself as his head hits the floor with a sickening thud. He can’t hold back a sound of pain, and the men around him laugh. “Some soldier.”

Wyatt curls in on himself, protecting his head as best he’s able with his hands cuffed behind him. At the beginning, he’d tried to block out the stinging words with his own thoughts, but the words have long since been beaten out of him.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He’s only trying to survive.

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"who is most likely to apologise first after an argument?" for Wyjess? I need traumatized attachment issues Wyatt like burning

DON’T WE ALL.

Enjoy some pre-series married!wyjess angstfluff! These two have issues but that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.

Also, I’m contractually obligated to tag @heytheredeann whenever I write loving wyjess angst, so. Hopefully you both enjoy. 😉

———————————————-

Jess takes three steps in the front door and stops short. “Okay…what’s wrong?”

The kitchen, which she generally maintains in a state of disarray in protest against the sanitary restrictions of the bar, has been scrubbed within an inch of its life. The military precision of it is almost painful, and the overpowering smell of dish soap stings her nose. Something bad has happened here.

What concerns her most, however, is the pitiful sight of her husband. Wyatt leans against the counter, arms and ankles crossed and head bowed. He looks stewing and penitent, but for the life of her Jess doesn’t know why.

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Hi! Sooooo, since you ask.... Platonic Flogan, Wyatt with a fever mistaking Flynn for his father and freaking out. Flynn finding out about Wyatt's childhood.

Any opportunity to write fever whump for you, friend, is a good one. ❤

Set post-S2, with warnings for mild violence and mentions of child abuse; definitely owes a debt to this wonderful fic by @qqueenofhadess.

—————————————-

Flynn faces Wyatt across their makeshift gym and crosses his arms. “Not that I’m passing on an opportunity to kick your butt, you understand, but I’m not beating up on a dead man.” Usually he takes a private pleasure in his standing date to spar with his least favorite member of the bunker, but today there would be no pleasure in it. Wyatt looks pale and clammy even from a distance, his eyes are unfocused, and his forehead shines with sweat. “Really, this is just embarrassing. How did you even get out of bed?”

“Just looking for an excuse to back out, aren’tcha.” Wyatt looks just conscious enough to be surly, and for one shining moment Flynn entertains the idea of hitting him, if only to prove that Wyatt belongs in bed. “Afraid I can beat you with…” Wyatt trails off, stumbling forward. Flynn is weighing the satisfactory finality of seeing him hit the floor with the embarrassment of having Flynn catch him, when Wyatt miraculously recovers his footing. “With one hand…see…? ‘M fine…”

Flynn starts a slow clap. 

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