#Kaysanova fic

[scimitar-and-longsword]

Free Fall Chapter 1/3 This is a sequel to Pilot!Nicky smut I wrote in Nov 2020. Surprise?? Nicky makes another trip to Amsterdam to see his new... casual hook up? Sure. Casual. More mutual pining while having ridiculous sex, but this time from Nicky’s POV. Read it on AO3

[seanchaidh7]

Joe & Nicky 🧹

Ohhhh this fic has been living rent free in my head since my first read! The most perfect brilliant Joe/Nicky quidditch au that ever existed. It's pure perfection, and a SERIES ❤️‍🔥

[destatihayati]

In search of a Kaysanova fic:

In it, Joe and Nicky are immortal but take a drug for immortals that wipes their memories every ~30 years, supposedly so they don’t go insane. Nile is researching the drug and the truth behind it. Joe and Nicky meet but it becomes clear they have fallen in love in pretty much every life time but keep forgetting. They are determined to learn the truth.

It’s so GOOD and I somehow didn’t bookmark it and I’m desperate to read again. Does anyone recognize this gem? I’m pretty sure the title of the fic was the name of the drug.

HALP?

[laviejaguardia]

Aaaaaand we've made it!!! Chapter 21 of Technical Support is up 💐🎉 hope you like it, it's a big one :)

Epilogue will be up in a couple days

[liggytheauthoress]

love the feeling of rereading your own fic and going "damn this bitch can write"

[zairaalbereo]

When he was young, Joe cast a spell to fall in love with an impossible man to make sure he would never fall in love at all…

But the spell found its goal, and when years later magic brings trouble to Joe’s door, it also brings Detective Nicolò di Genova.

It’s the spooky season once more and so it’s time to rewatch one of my favourite movies. Luckily for me, @gallifreyburning is also writing an amazing Practical Magic TOG AU:

a love even time will lie down and be still for

Read it, it’s beautiful! I can’t wait to see it finished.

[youssefguedira]

i dont know when ill get around to writing the larger fic this is part of but you know brain worms have this

Nicky offers to pick him up at the airport like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t been almost ten years since they saw each other, because he knows Joe hates planes and won’t want to try and navigate the two trains and two buses it’ll take to actually reach their hometown after the flight. And Joe doesn’t even try to protest, just texts him Thank you before he gets on the plane and then tries not to think about it for the entire flight. He fails.

When he arrives he’s exhausted, because it never really gets easier no matter how many times he does it. Moves through the airport like a zombie, operating mostly on muscle memory. He hasn’t been here in a long time. Still knows it well enough to navigate without really thinking about it. 

His suitcase is one of the last to come through on the carousel, but it does come through, and then he’s walking to arrivals with his heart in his throat. 

Nicky’s hanging back from the crowd, hands in his pockets. His hair is a little longer now, and at some point in the last decade he’s gotten his ears pierced, which Joe didn’t know. He’s wearing a dark green sweater and blue jeans. When he catches sight of Joe he smiles, small and restrained, straightens slightly.

“Hey,” he says as Joe gets closer, voice soft.

Joe has to swallow. “Hey,” he says hoarsely.

And he doesn’t even need to say anything else, because Nicky pulls him into a hug before Joe even has to ask, and Joe buries his face in Nicky’s neck and tries to breathe around the sob catching in his throat. One of Nicky’s hands comes up to cup the back of Joe’s neck, his thumb moving back and forth gently, and Joe is fragile enough that that gesture alone almost undoes him. 

Nicky pulls back first. Smiles at Joe. “You look good,” he says.

Joe has to swallow before he trusts himself to speak. “You too.” 

They linger just a moment longer, Nicky’s hand still on the back of Joe’s neck. Ten years ago, Joe would’ve kissed him; now there’s a gap neither of them quite know how to fill.

Finally, Nicky steps back fully, and Joe feels the loss of contact sharply. “We should go,” Nicky says. Joe nods, and follows him out of the terminal.

The car Nicky heads for is the same battered old thing he’s been driving since he got his licence. Joe wonders to himself how the car is even still going, and the look Nicky gives him tells him he knows exactly what Joe’s thinking.

It does something funny to Joe’s heart. He looks away, and gets in the car. 

“I brought you something to eat,” Nicky says before he starts the car, reaching for the bag by Joe’s feet. 

“You didn’t have to–” Joe begins, but Nicky cuts him off with a knowing almost-smile. 

“You hate plane food,” Nicky says, “and it’s almost two, and the other option would be whatever we can find on the way. I thought you might prefer this to service station food.”

It makes Joe want to cry a little. “Nicky,” he says, and can’t manage anything else. 

Nicky seems to understand. He pulls out what he had been looking for - a silver thermos, and a fork - and hands it to Joe. The contents are still warm when Joe opens it: pasta, warm and comforting. 

“Good?” Nicky asks, watching him.

Joe nods. “Good.”

“Okay.” Nicky looks at him for a beat longer, then turns away and starts the car. 

There’s a moment of delay before the CD player starts up, but when it does, Joe knows it from the opening note: he bought Nicky this CD from a thrift store the summer before he left for university, when they’d taken off for two weeks, just them and the car and the road. And there’s no chance that Nicky’s kept it in his car for ten years, but as they leave the airport and turn onto the motorway it makes it feel like they’ve done this a thousand times before, even though Nicky never picked him up from the airport when he came home, only met him at the station once or twice.

Joe finishes the pasta and tucks the thermos back in the bag. “Thank you,” he says, and it comes out a lot quieter than he means it to. 

Nicky glances at him. “We’re still a few hours away, if you want to try and sleep. I will wake you when we’re almost there.”

Joe might protest under other circumstances, but the flight was long, and he doesn’t sleep well on planes anyway. So he takes off his scarf and folds it into a makeshift pillow before leaning back and closing his eyes. Nicky drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat, hums along with the tune, and Joe lets the sound of his voice and the tapping of the rain on the window wrap around him like a blanket, carrying him off to sleep.

----------

Joe wakes to Nicky shaking his shoulder gently. “We’ll be there soon,” he’s saying. The rain has stopped; the radio is on, now, chattering in the way in the background. They’ve left the motorway behind for a much narrower road. Joe has to blink a few times before he catches sight of a sign and realises what Nicky means. 

He sits up. The position he’d been sleeping in hadn’t been great for his back or his neck, and he’ll probably regret it soon, but he’d slept a lot better than he might’ve expected. 

Being back always makes the rest of his life feel like a dream, like he’d never left at all. When the sign for their town passes Joe sits up, panic coiling in his stomach. He’s had days to prepare himself and still isn’t ready.

“Wait,” he says when they turn a corner two streets away from Joe’s parents’ house, “Nicky. Wait.”

“What?” Nicky asks. He doesn’t stop, but he does slow down.

“I can’t– I can’t do this.”

Now Nicky does stop, pulling into a lay-by. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, I just. Not yet. I need time.”

Nicky looks at him for a long moment. “When are they expecting you?”

“I didn’t give an exact time. Just sometime this afternoon.” He’d told his sister Nicky was coming to get him over the phone; she hadn’t said anything, but the silence had been enough. 

Nicky doesn’t say anything, but he’s got the look on his face that means he’s thinking.

“I’ll be okay by myself,” Joe says then. “If you need to work.”

Nicky shakes his head. “I have today off.” And then, before Joe can really think about that, he turns the car around and heads back the way they came. This time, he recognises the path Nicky’s taking almost immediately, turning away from the area Joe’s parents live in and towards the outskirts of town, where it starts to become mostly farmland.

“I can park the car by my uncle’s house,” Nicky says, glancing at Joe. “Then we can go from there.”

Joe doesn’t need to ask where; they’ve walked the same route so many times he could probably do it in his sleep. 

The sheep are out in the fields by Nicky’s uncle’s house, but he doesn’t see any of the lambs yet, though they must be coming soon. Nicky’s uncle let Joe try and help with lambing once, up until the point where Joe saw what exactly that entailed, and immediately lost his nerve. But he’d still let him help Nicky feed them every year.

There’s a little paved yard outside the farmhouse, where Nicky parks the car before grabbing the bag that had been by Joe’s feet. “I’m going to drop these off,” Nicky says. “You can come in, if you want?”

Nicky’s aunt and uncle have always been kind to Joe, but they will inevitably ask about his father, and Joe cannot quite bring himself to talk about that, not yet. 

“I’ll wait,” Joe says. 

It’s a few minutes before Nicky reappears, this time without the bag, but carrying a different thermos. He smiles apologetically as he jogs over. “I didn’t mean to make you wait long,” Nicky says. “But you know how they are.”

All Joe can do is nod. Nicky sets off down the path towards the woods that border the farm and Joe falls into step beside him. They don’t talk much on the way there, but they don’t need to: the silence is comfortable enough.

It’ll be spring soon. It’s cold but not cold enough to be uncomfortable, and the snowdrops are in full bloom, bright shards of white in the grass. The rain has stopped, but the smell of it still hangs in the air. They must’ve spent hours walking this path, enough that Joe doesn’t really need to look to know exactly where Nicky’s going.

This part of the river is just secluded enough that he can’t hear cars passing by anymore. The bench by the path is still there, though at some point they’ve built a shelter over it, which probably leaks but has kept it dry even after the rain. Nicky makes for it immediately. 

If he looked at the back of the third slat from the left he’d find their names carved into the wood, side by side. Joe very deliberately doesn’t look. 

Nicky sits down. Nods to the space beside him. When Joe joins him, he holds out the thermos.

“Tea,” Nicky says. “If you want.”

How many times have they done exactly this, over the years? In summer, they’d wade into the river; in winter, Joe always wanted to try skating on it, but the ice was never quite thick enough. Every time Nicky got into a fight with his father, every time Joe couldn’t bear to be in the house one second longer, they’d come here. 

Joe gives into memory and rests his head on Nicky’s shoulder. Nicky brings one arm up to hold him close, hand on Joe’s upper arm.

Joe closes his eyes, listens to the birds, listens to Nicky’s breathing. 

Nicky says, “When is the funeral?”

“Thursday,” Joe says. He doesn’t want to think about this, doesn’t want to think about the last conversation he had with his father, doesn’t want to imagine walking into his parents’ house and finding him gone. Of all people, Nicky will understand. It’s what brought them together when they were younger: being the only two students in their class who spoke English as a second language, and difficult fathers.

Silence falls between them, and Nicky doesn’t let him go, and Joe’s missed him, more than he really knew. He’d tried to stay in touch, and they had, for the most part, but it’s not the same as having Nicky beside him again.

Joe doesn’t think there’s anyone in this world who knows him the way Nicky does.

He doesn’t know why he says it, but they haven’t talked about it, and it feels like something they should, if only so Joe can lay this all to rest. 

Joe opens his eyes. “You, uh. You seeing anyone?”

Nicky doesn’t pull away, but Joe feels the way he goes still, tense. Slowly, softly, he says, “I don’t think this is the right time, Joe.”

“Is there ever a right time?” Joe asks, half-joking. 

Nicky doesn’t laugh. 

Joe clears his throat. “I’m not. So.”

Nicky exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself. His thumb moves back and forth, back and forth where it’s resting on Joe’s arm, catching on the fabric of his coat. “Me neither.”

Joe’s not sure if that’s better or worse than if Nicky had said he’d found someone. If he had, perhaps Joe could put to rest the little part of him that will always be in love with Nicky. Not get rid of it entirely, but fold it away in a little corner of his heart and leave it there. This, though – this is possibility he doesn’t know what to do with.

“How long are you here?” Nicky asks quietly, moving his hand up to run his fingers through Joe’s hair, like he used to whenever Joe needed something to keep him grounded.

“I got two weeks off work,” Joe says. “After that I don’t know.”

Two weeks feels monumentally long and yet vanishingly short at the same time. And after?

They don’t talk about much after that. Small talk, more than anything else: Nicky’s still living in the same apartment, still working the same job, but Joe knows he loves it from the tone of his voice when he talks about the shelves he built for his most recent client, how he’s starting to make more of his own stuff, how his boss has been talking about retiring and leaving the whole business to Nicky. Joe could listen to him talk about it for hours. Maybe he does. 

It settles the frantic thing that had woken in his chest when they crossed the town line, and eventually, Joe says, “I think I’m ready.”

Nicky turns his head inwards and kisses the top of Joe’s head. Lingers there for a moment. It isn’t anything; it doesn’t have to be anything. 

“Okay,” Nicky says. “Okay.”

The walk back to the farm is largely silent, just as the walk there had been, passing the thermos of tea back and forth between them. They get back in the car, and Nicky drives them back to Joe’s parents’ house. 

Nicky pulls up on the curb outside the house. “Call me, if you need anything. Or just– call me.”

“I will,” Joe promises. He has two weeks; he’s not going to waste them. They haven’t been in the same timezone in a long, long time.

Nicky smiles, small and hopeful, and there’s nothing really to say, after that. 

Joe gets out of the car, and prepares to face his family.

[materassassino]

Green Pastures, Still Waters

This is a little birthday present for @non-un-topo, who is very lovely and deserves to have a wonderful birthday. I hope you like it!

(I did try to draw Nicolò with sheep for you, but I have completely forgotten how to draw, it seems. I'm sorry.)

---

In truth, Nicolò loves Yusuf more than he could ever say. More than his own limbs, his own breath. With every beat of his heart, in time with Yusuf’s. It is a certainty, a steadfast and immovable foundation of his being, by now.

That does not mean, of course, that there is not… friction. They are two very different men, sometimes.

“I tire of this place!”

Yusuf announces it, loudly, to the pasture around them. The sheep are unbothered by this, and continue grazing. They have become completely inured to Yusuf’s histrionics, and he scowls at them, hands on his hips.

“Philistines,” he says, and throws himself on the grass. He then springs up again, yelping, because the grass is sparse and brown, and the ground is baked hard and it is very, very hot. The Sardinian sun is fickle at best and merciless at worst.

Nicolò, much more wisely, has chosen a rock in the shade. He sits with his crook across his lap, chin propped on his hand, and watches Yusuf scoot back into the shade beside him, where the ground is less fiery.

Yusuf draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, pouting fiercely. Nicolò lets him stew a moment longer.

“Why do you tire?” he asks.

Yusuf turns to him with a look of complete and utter outrage on his face.

“Why? Why?” he demands, his voice almost shrill with indignation. “Nicolò, what kind of question is that?”

Nicolò thinks it a perfectly legitimate question. He likes this place. He loves the gentle but rugged mountains, the rocks and the cliffs and the stiff, scrubby pines, the scent of the myrtle and the laurel bushes. He loves the olives and figs and carobs. He loves the animals, the mouflons and deer, the lizards and crawling insects, and the birds, from the smallest to the great vultures that soar above. He loves the silence broken only by birdsong and the symphony of grasshoppers and the quiet rustle of the trees. He loves tending the sheep, hearing their bleating, feeding and watering and herding them, and in the spring, helping the ewes give birth, bringing new little lives into this world, soft and white. He loves the sun on his skin and the cool of the shade and the caress of the mountain breeze on his face.

This place, he thinks, is its own sort of paradise.

Yet while he flourishes, Yusuf seems to wither.

“Do you not like it here?” Nicolò asks. Yusuf lets his head fall back with a long-suffering sigh.

“I grow weary, Nicolò,” he says. “I am bored!”

Nicolò blinks. “Bored?” he repeats, surprised. He would have deemed this place perfect for art to bloom, inspiration in every hillside. Yusuf raises a rather condescending eyebrow at him.

“Yes. Bored. It is the same, day after day! The sheep, the mountains, the vast, never-ending blue sky! I miss…” He huffs, folding his arms. “I miss being in a city. I miss gossip and debate and the vibrancy of human life! I miss markets and varied foods and music and festivities! I miss libraries and art! I miss people!”

Nicolò grip on his crook tightens, twisting nervously. In truth, despite the knowledge of Yusuf’s unwavering love, there is always some fear. Little, dark thoughts, ink in water, that Yusuf might one day want more. Want better.

“Do you tire of my company, Yusuf?” he asks, very quietly.

Yusuf whips around, his eyes wide and horrified.

“What? No!” He springs up, crowding close to Nicolò on his rock, and takes his face between his palms. “Never!” He kisses every part of Nicolò’s face, his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, his lips. “Never, not in a thousand lifetimes!”

He sits back, taking one of Nicolò’s hands. “No, I merely… miss other people. This place is beautiful but so quiet. My thoughts chase themselves, tangle themselves in knots until I can barely think. My head is so loud it aches, sometimes.” He sighs. “We have boundless time, and yet I fear that here there is too much of it.”

Nicolò reaches out, stroking Yusuf’s cheek. “I think I understand.”

What is for Nicolò quiet contemplation, for Yusuf is, after too long, maddening emptiness. They truly are two very different men. He kisses Yusuf’s wrist, the heel of his hand, the pad of his thumb.

“I would say we could leave, but…” He gestures helplessly to the sheep. “We promised.”

Yusuf hums. “We did, we did.”

Nicolò knows Yusuf is a man of his word. They promised the old widow Agnese to mind her flock for the spring and the summer, and Yusuf would never renege on such a thing unless there was, truly, no other choice, but wanderlust flaps desperate wings against the cage of his ribs.

“My desire is frivolous,” Yusuf admits. “I feel quite selfish, now that I think about it.”

“Do not be foolish,” Nicolò chides gently. “You have wishes, and I would see you happy, Yusuf. That is my desire.” He gets to his feet, crook discarded, pulling Yusuf with him. “When the summer ends, we will find a city, a huge, wonderful, loud city, and you will discuss your philosophy and write your poetry and make your art again!”

Yusuf laughs, tugging him closer. “In truth, Nicolò, wherever you take me, I am happy. Forgive my grumbling.”

Nicolò could never paint with words like Yusuf does. He could never voice the beauty he sees in that beloved face, the glory of Yusuf’s bright smile, the melody of his laughter, the softness of his joyful eyes. So he kisses him, attempting to pour all his love, his devotion, the boundless depth and lofty heights of it into where their lips meet. And when Yusuf kisses back with the same passion, perhaps that is proof he can feel it.

They must be very distracted, because all of a sudden Yusuf sqawks into the kiss. The earth disappears from beneath their feet, and Nicolò’s back makes hard, painful contact with the ground. Their teeth smash into each other, cracking, cutting Nicolò’s lip and his tongue, and Yusuf’s entire weight on top of him knocks the wind from his lungs.

Dazed, he stares up at the sky, feeling new teeth grow back in, an itching, sharp ache. It is a deeply unpleasant sensation.

“You beast! Demon of a sheep!” Yusuf cries. He scrambles up to his knees, pointing accusingly.

The sheep – the one Nicolò has called Alfreda, because he cannot help but name them, and name them after saints at that – bleats mockingly back, and turns away, content in her petty vengeance.

“She charged right into me,” Yusuf grumbles, shifting so he can massage his behind. Nicolò laughs at that, wiping away the blood from his mouth.

“Alfreda is very opinionated,” he says, sitting up. “God’s punishment for shirking our duties to mind them, no doubt.”

Yusuf snorts, and sits back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“I shall remember her for my entire long life,” he vows. “I shall remember and curse Alfreda the sheep, until death finally comes for me. Do you hear me?!” he yells after her. She takes absolutely no notice, going back to grazing.

Nicolò laughs again, falling to the side into Yusuf’s shoulder, and when the laughter dies away, he stays there. Yusuf holds out his hand, and Nicolò takes it, threading their fingers together, and Nicolò can never cease to marvel at how perfectly they fit, despite looking so very different.

[linaxart]

Below him is Earth, floating in an ocean of stars. The sun is just rising, lending it a kind of halo, which is a view he thinks he’s never gotten tired of. His favourite, though, is his view of the planet at night, when it’s lit by a web of man-made stars, stretching across countries and along coastlines, its cities glowing like tiny suns. Aside from the films and books he’s seen and read, sent to him every week or so, and the transmissions, it’s his only real indication that he isn’t the only person in the universe. Doesn’t alleviate the loneliness entirely, but it makes him feel just a little less isolated.

- from @youssefguedira's amazing amazing fic planet earth is blue (and there's nothing I can do) which is just so very perfect and I already love so much <3 and for @theartguard's bi-monthly theme Fic-Inspired!

[non-un-topo]

Outfits of the Guard from an older fic of mine, Tangerine and Roc. Supposed to be a bit of a mix of styles from Central Asia in the late 15th century as they go about their travels, with a little battle-ready touch.

[negotiumcrucis]

When Joe’s bag gave way, spilling all its contents on the corridor floor, it took every ounce of willpower not to fall on his knees and weep like a child. Of course, Hana had finally settled down in her carrier, and she continued to sleep despite the crash of a half dozen cans of baby formula hitting the carpet, so Joe merely blinked back unshed tears and took a deep breath, finding his key and unlocking his flat. He left the door ajar as he carefully put Hana’s carrier on the sofa and quickly went back to retrieve the scattered cans.

After the tragic passing of his omega sibling, alpha Joe got custody of his newborn niece. Unfortunately, things weren’t progressing as well as they should and now Joe has found himself in dire need of a wet nurse.

--

a heart like mine a slow burn JoeNicky omegaverse AU

[seanchaidh7]

The Unrecognizable Calculus of This

Art inspired by Part four of The Repair Shop AU

A humidor, a jigsaw puzzle, and a chair. A new home, an old colleague, and love.

At AO3

I cannot express the depth of my OBSESSION with this series, @sheafrotherdon wrote it so beautifully. One of my all time favourite Joe/Nicky fics

[aniron48]

in a space that they belong

My fingers slipped and this happened.

First foray into The Old Guard fandom, over on ao3!

“I was just wondering,” Nicky asks the clerk, “are you sure you don’t have any others of this kind?” His accent is stronger, when he’s nervous—which is anytime he talks to strangers, really—and he winces a little, but the clerk doesn’t seem to notice.

“No, just that one,” the clerk says absently, eyeing the clock over the checkout counter with something that looks like longing. “Feel free to try it out, and if you like it we can order a different size for you.”

And he really wants to try it out, is the thing, because the articles he’s read say you should test a mattress for at least 15 minutes before committing. But there’s already a customer on this bed—a man, effortlessly beautiful in a way Nicky could never dream of being, with the softest black curls Nicky has ever seen, and a beard Nicky wants to feel against the inside of his thighs. And isn’t that an image to have in his head, right as the man opens his eyes to see Nicky standing awkwardly by the side of the bed.

________________________________

Or, oh my god, there was only one mattress.

[laviejaguardia]

Take the choice off my hands please

[astrabear]

The first time Yusuf dies, it happens too quickly for him to be scared. The second time he dies, he is too confused by it being the second time he has died to be scared. But the third time - the third time he is terrified. He is so afraid of waking up again. It is the last time he will feel such fear on his own behalf. The next time Yusuf feels that terror, it is the first time Nicolò dies at someone else's hands, because what if their strange gift only applies to each other? Then, the first time Nicolò dies from something other than violence. The first time Nicolò dies and Yusuf is not there. But the gift has no such restrictions, and the fear fades again. It returns when they learn about Lykon, a great roaring conflagration of horror that never quite goes out. The coals are only banked, not extinguished. They flare up again when Quynh is lost. When Andy is mortal and there's a bloody halo on the floor he can't make himself look at. It's been years now since he felt that fear. He holds a broad liver-spotted hand in his own, veined and knobbly fingers intertwined. He never feared death before; he still doesn't, though he knows it approaches, the final death, the one from which they will not wake. His fear was always being trapped in a life he could not bear but could not leave, a cage as agonizing and inescapable as Quynh's had been. The cage door is open. The fire is out. Here, now, ancient and frail and fading, they are free.

[zairaalbereo]

Everything feels different now. Disconnected. As if the whole world made one step to the right when Joe took one left, and now he doesn’t fit anymore. There is a no man's land between him and the world, and he no longer holds a passport to the Life Before.

— Chapter 2 of “The Ghost of You”