nataliaa
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He’s not sure when he finally drifts off, only that it’s far too close to the time when Johnny’s horrible old alarm clock begins blaring. Gheorghe wakes abruptly, disoriented, heart racing, wishing desperately that he hadn’t agreed to harvest fucking potatoes in fucking Scotland. Then Johnny groans and mumbles and slowly disentangles himself to sit up, and Gheorghe thinks, oh, right, and pushes himself up after Johnny.
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Nicolò understands how he ended up somewhere in the desert outside of Jerusalem, covered in sand and grime and blood, both his own and other people’s.
What remains unclear to him is specifically how he has ended up here, as in not dead and also having the best and angriest sex of his admittedly inexperienced life with a man who by all rights should also be dead. It completely defies his comprehension, especially when said man does something with his tongue that causes Nicolò’s brain to go as blessedly blank as a cloudless summer sky.
Now with Chapter 2: from accidentally getting it on while trying to kill each other, to accidentally killing each other while trying to get it on.
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“So Mutt dated both Twyla and Alexis?” Patrick asks, picking up the thread of their conversation.
“Mmhmm,” David hums. “I think his type is just ‘chatty enough that I don’t have to talk’. Although,” he says, “Alexis turned out to be more than he bargained for. Which is kind of a family trait.”
Patrick peers over at him and raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re too much, David.”
“Well,” David says, taking a gulp of his wine, “we are on day zero-point-five of fourteen, so you might want to withhold judgment for a few more days.”
Or: The fluffy dystopian pandemic AU that precisely nobody asked for.
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Yusuf sighs. “Allah forgive me, but I do not want to kill you again,” he says to the Frank. “Please, no more death. It’s enough.” He slowly spreads his arms, palms up, hoping that his meaning will be clear.
The Frank just gazes at him for a moment, his unsettling blue eyes sharp but the rest of his face lined with fatigue. At last he nods, says something in his own language and, carefully telegraphing his movements, lifts his sword from his lap and sets it down in the sand beside him. He holds out his palms, mirroring Yusuf. Thus begins their tentative truce.
Or: another enemies-to-lovers backstory of dubious historical accuracy.
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Inspired by a long-ago tumblr prompt along the lines of: We're both superheroes, and we got really drunk last night, and oooh god what did we do?