Might’ve been done already but despite Joe being the sun, his feet get cold. They’re two icicles that he shoves between Nicky’s thighs every single night. And every single night, Nicky flinches away from Joe, but he doesn’t get very far because of the vice-like grip Joe has on him. He’s a prisoner to Joe’s icy toes and even 900 years later, he’s still not used to it. He absolutely does not miss cold feet being shoved between his legs when they’re apart.
Joe and Nicky with matching shoes. It’s less conspicuous than matching hats. They have casual sneakers that are a little bit more sophisticated than vans. They’re the same size so it really doesn’t matter if it’s the same pair. The only time they’re able to tell the difference is if someone steps in mud or paint gets on it. Even then, Joe and Nicky don’t care. As long as they have a shoe on each foot, everything’s good.
HE DOES. Think about the way his eyes never leave Joe’s after Merrick stabs him in the neck until Joe confirms he’s okay, the way he seems to just- orbit Joe, is constantly aware of where he is, how he’s moving - he’ll always know where Joe will be, and will always be there to hand him ammo, a gun, or pass off a kill, or just reassure Joe that he’s there, that he’s also thinking of Joe and that everything will be okay.
Imagine that kind of love, of someone who’s just so steady and constant, who is a calming, strong presence. No wonder Joe calls him his moon; he can always count on Nicky to guide him through anything, because for 900 years it’s Nicky who has been by his side when he turns, in his arms when he sleeps.
Joe was in the middle of mixing up some new colours when a hand extended into his view, holding a plate of pasta.
“Pasta?” he said stupidly. He followed the hand and up the (very nicely-muscled) arm to Nicolo’s face, which was, as usual, impassive.
“You should eat,” said Nicolo. “It’s been five hours.”
“I’m not hungry,” Joe said automatically, just as his stomach growled. He flushed. “Right. Maybe a bit hungry.”
Nicolo raised an eyebrow expectantly.
“But I can make something for myself,” Joe added hastily.
Nicolo eyed him. “Do you not like pasta?”
“I love pasta,” Joe said honestly. “And this smells amazing.”
So eat the pasta then, said Nicolo’s expression, which was impressive considering it was the same expression he always had.
“You don’t have to cook for me,” Joe explained. “It’s not in your job description.”
“If you fall over and break your head on an easel because you forgot to eat, that’s a hazard.”
“I’m not going to forget to eat,” Joe said indignantly. “I’m an adult, I even do my own banking!”
“Mr. Le Livre looks after your finances,” Nicolo said. “Also, yesterday you didn’t eat for seven hours.”
Had he? Joe couldn’t remember. “That was an anomaly?” he tried.
Nicolo’s brow furrowed, an expression Joe’s fingers itched to sketch. “You did the same thing the day before that.”
Nicolo held out the plate and fork.
“Okay, okay.” Joe caved, reaching over. The plate almost fell from suddenly nerveless fingers as they brushed Nicolo’s. “Thank you. But please, don’t feel like you have to do this.”
“I can’t have you withering away from hunger while I’m on the job, your manager would probably have me shot.”
Nicolo crossed his arms. “Or sued. My contract states that all parts of your body are to be looked after.”
“Booker wouldn’t do that,” Joe said automatically, before the rest of the statement caught up with him, and he choked as his mind helpfully came up with all the other places that Nicolo could look after because nope, nope, he wouldn’t be the sleazebag that hit on people who were technically his employees.
“You’re not eating,” Nicolo said pointedly, apparently oblivious to Joe’s inner turmoil.
“I’m eating,” Joe said, quickly shoving a forkful into his mouth. “I’m - oh my God.” He broke off on a long moan. “Oh my God.”
He looked up to thank Nicolo, only to stop short at the sight of those pale cheeks flushed, for the first time in the whole two weeks he’d known the other man.
“Glad you like it,” Nicolo said quickly, voice a little thin. “I’m going to let you get back to your work. Please finish the whole plate, and drink this glass of water, too,” he added, sounding like himself again. And then he was gone, leaving Joe to stare after him baffled.
“What’s up with him?” he asked the plate of pasta, which, predictably, stayed silent. “Oh well, I’ll have to thank him later.”
I saw this post on Tumblr yesterday about Joe being an artist with Nicky as his bodyguard, but couldn’t
find it to reblog with this snippet? (Please if someone could link me
so I can give credit to whomever came up with the idea, I would be very
grateful. I am, to my great shame, not great with this site).
guess who just started a new manip series….
please do not steal/repost/crop my manips
Berlin, only you and me…
Joe and Nicky definitely use emojis and stickers when they text.
Joe: Coming home!
Nicky: Drive safely! I love you 😘😘😘
Joe: I love you too! 😘🥰😍
i’m into the aesthetic of joe and nicky smoking but i’m curious, do we think they’ve quit smoking? what was that like?
Berlin, 1932. Sunset.
nicolò wakes up in his arms, head nestled on the crook of his neck, lips brushing his collarbone, right hand directly above his floating rib, thighs tangled in his beneath the soft sheets. yusuf is a wall of warmth in his welcoming arms, his scent the finest perfume nicolò has ever had touching his skin. he inhales him, fingers slowly travelling upwards, cupping his ribcage tenderly.
there is no rush right now, no urgent need to get up and take the first flight out to the other side of the world, no grand task to fulfill at the moment. andy said she would keep in touch but for now they should all rest and lay low, and they didn’t have to be told twice.
nicolò places a featherlight kiss to the curve of yusuf’s neck, feeling his heartbeat flutter against his lips, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste him. yusuf makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, not quite a whimper but close to it, eyes still closed. nicolò smiles softly, the pad of his thumb caressing a freckle close to the small of his back, one he had kissed and worshipped far too many times in the past.
yet still not enough times.
he presses another kiss to his neck, this time directly below his ear, and yusuf whines through parted lips, his own hand tightening its hold on nicolò’s hip bone. “you pay far too much attention, my life,” his voice is heavy with sleep and nicolò grins wickedly, pulling back to look at him.
yusuf’s eyes are heavy-lidded, long eyelashes fluttering as he blinks slowly, taking him in like it’s the first time they have slept together. nicolò lets him stare and does the same, eyes travelling lazily from his beautiful eyes to the adorable freckles on his cheeks and nose, to his sharp jawline and very rosy, very kissable lips that he couldn’t wait to taste again.
he hears yusuf’s sharp intake of breath and leans forward until their noses touch, his hand coming up to cup his face delicately. “should i stop?” he teases lightly against his lips, feeling his shudder in his own body as if they are cut from the same mold.
when yusuf presses closer to his hand and sighs, nicolò has no doubts that immortality is a gift. “never.”
Instagram AU: Joe x Nicky
Joe is a thrist trap posting Instagram influencer. It supports him as he works on his art and poetry.
Nicky is a technological dinosaur who doesn’t realize he has used his full name as his Instagram handle and has his actual real phone number in his bio.
Joe notices this poor guy liking his posts has zero digital self preservation. He visits the account. It’s has one post: a blurry shot of a handsome man being hugged by two older women on a night out. The captain says “Quynh made me post this”
Nicky gets a notification. His embarrassing Instagram crush has sent him a message! “Did Quynh make you like every post I’ve made in the last 2 years too?”
Joe falls out of his chair laughing when Nicolo di Genova responds, “You can see those?!?!?”.
11 - both of you wore the same ugly christmas sweater to a party
lykon can’t take one long look at him without chuckling.
nicky rolls his eyes at his friend, taking a sip from the red wine he had bought specifically for the party. “i really don’t see why this is so funny to you, lykon,” he grumbles, meeting nile’s gaze across the crowded living room and smiling because she is his best friend in the entire world and he would do anything to make her happy.
even wear a lumpy, huge christmas sweater with a dancing gingerbread cookie sewn on his chest.
Today in fic ideas I don’t want to write: various things Joe and Nicky did between first and second sleep.
roses are red,
I’m so very gay,
IMAGINE: JOE AND NICKY GETTING PROTECTIVE OF YOU WHEN YOU GET CAPTURED WITH THEM BY MERRICK.
You scream out in pain as Merrick plunges a blade into your shoulder, and he yanks it out, watching in awe as you immediately begin to heal from the wound.
“Leave them alone, you bastard.” Joe scowls, lunging at Merrick, trying to attack him as Nicky immediately tries to huddle closer to you, and Joe is roughly pulled back by the multiple men that have you pinned down.
Nicky’s features are soft as he searches you face, and he asks, “Are you alright?”
You nod, gulping back the swear words that bubble in the back of your throat. Being able to heal from all wounds don’t make them hurt any less, a painful less you’re reminded of time and time again. The three of you slowly look back up at Merrick, all equally terrified of whatever he has in store for you.