#joexnicky

Anyway Nicky is so done with Booker always get so wasted and having to say now Booker you know we can't engage in those type of intimate activities and then having to call Joe to drag Booker to bed. If Joe lets Booker drop to the floor instead of the bed for hitting on his husband well 🤷🏽‍♀️. But he still kinda pats his cheek cus ofc anyone would hit on Nicky. He gets it lol and it's his brother who he knows would never actually do anything.

In Thessaloniki in the 1160s, Yusuf and Nicolò first hear rumors about a secret pleasure gland inside a man's anus, written about long ago by the great Roman physician Galen.

In Constantinople a few months later, Yusuf insists on his turn experiencing this new manner of pleasure.

In Venice in the 1430s, Nicolò writes an anatomy textbook including, amongst other things, knowledge of the fleshy gland upon the neck of the bladder.

And in 2021, Nile finds out exactly what Nicky and Joe were up to in the Renaissance (butt stuff. It was mostly butt stuff).

Or: a journey through Nicky and Joe's discovering the joy of prostates.

Series Page: Galen's Secret by Dr_Amuly. 23.8k, Explicit, Joe/Nicky

First part: When In Byzantium, 9.5k, Explicit, Joe/Nicky (mostly bottom Nicky, though Joe gets fingered too)

Second part: Treat Me Rough, That I Might Feel It Less, 4.8k, Joe/Nicky (bottom Joe)

Treat Me Rough, That I Might Feel It Less, by Dr_Amuly. Joe/Nicky, 4.8k, Rated: E. Sequel to When in Byzantium, but it's a stand-alone PWP, so enjoy.

Everyone ends up in Constantinople.

They’d already been there twice, to Yusuf’s great chagrin. First as a stop-over when they were traveling to the east, searching for those women in their dreams. But then their hunt proved fruitless for a year, for five, and Nicolò had grown anxious about his mother, his homeland, and they made the journey back through the city astride two continents.

Now they returned a third time, fleeing from their Thessaloniki home of five years. “Fleeing” was probably a strong word—they had left Darius in good spirits, told him to write (they would not), and walked away from their rooms with all their possessions packed up and on their backs. Not close to the worst way they had left a place, in this strange life of theirs.

But they had still left under some duress, if mostly in their minds. Nicolò had been injured on the docks; sailors had seen, perhaps. Darius had seen, perhaps. No one had asked questions, yet. But it was best, they knew, to leave before such questions started occurring in the minds of the men around them. Best to leave their friend Darius happy and hale, than let those suspicions fester like an open sore in his mind.

After weeks of sailing, the gleaming gem of the Middle Sea—at least, for the Byzantines, for the Christians—Constantinople arose on the horizon before them, the walls of Galata shimmering in the afternoon sun. Yusuf elbowed Nicolò, who elbowed him back, as they stood at the railing of the ship, sea spray hitting their faces and wind whipping their hair. It was a good day. It would be a good day.

They had left Thessaloniki with a respectable amount of coin in their pocket; enough to broker passage on this ship and a month’s rent for a single room. They had, over the decades, accumulated enough skills that in a city the size of Constantinople they felt assured they would find work. And if they could not? They had time, and little ties to any one place. They would survive, and move along.

“Where was our apartment the first time?” Yusuf asked as they gathered their things and prepared to disembark.

Nicolò’s face scrunched in that adorable way it had when he was caught off-guard by his own mind—its failure to remember something a mere decade past, Yusuf imagined. “We- ah. Hm.” After a moment he snapped his fingers. “It was by the Hippodrome, sì?”

“Oh! Oh, no.” Yusuf shook his head. “That was last time.”

Nicolò nodded exaggeratedly as they took to the gangplank, men and cargo shoving them on all sides as they disembarked. He frowned as his feet hit the docks. “Where did we live the first time, then? How long ago…?”

“Can it be… was it twenty years?” Yusuf mused. Nicolò nearly came to a stop right there, amidst the bustle of the docks. Were it not for Yusuf’s hand on his arm guiding him forward, he might have.

“Twenty-!”

“It was before your people came through again, on another bastard crusade. A decade before, at least. So it must have been-”

“Madre di Dio, twenty years, sì,” Nicolò sighed. He wiped a hand over his mouth and shook his head. “You know, I remember as a youth, my parents, the older men, they would say things like this: ‘oh, could it be ten years ago? No, not twenty!’ and so I know that us at the age we are, this is normal. But…”

“But for our faces being of men thirty years our junior?” Yusuf supplied. Nicolò shrugged.

“But for that, yes. But also: for us, as we continue: it will grow more, and more, will it not? Fifty years from now, a century: will we be saying ‘Ah, when were we in Constantinople last? It could not have been last century, no? So long!’”

Seriously, Yusuf clasped a hand to Nicolò’s shoulder, pulling him close as they made their way into the gaping maw of the streets of Constantinople: “Habibi: I can only hope that we are so blessed that a century from now, a millennia from now, we have each other, and lives lived so richly that we cannot hope to remember all the joys we have shared.” Yusuf released Nicolò then, but not before pressing a rough kiss to his head. Nicolò smiled, and the sun shown on Yusuf’s beloved and illuminated him like one of his holy men captured in gold leaf in his Christian books. Radiant, beautiful. Beautiful.

When in Byzantium, by Dr_Amuly. Rated E, Joe/Nicky, 9.5k

They did not try that night. They were sweaty from the docks, and had not washed themselves top-to-bottom in several days (wudu aside, which Yusuf dutifully performed five times daily. But wudu did not require scrubbing of certain parts, in particular the parts both Nicolò and Yusuf would rather scrub before diving in… so to say). Not that they were averse to some dirt and grime—Nicolò had been covered in Yusuf’s guts more than once, Yusuf had pieces of Nicolò’s brain and skull fly into his mouth. They had seen each other shit themselves as they died, they had seen their organs outside each other’s bodies. They had kissed, and made love, in the most dire and unwelcoming of circumstances.

But they were not at war. They had a room above a shop, and lived in a city with public baths, and had steady paying work at the docks. There was no rush; they practically lived in luxury, compared to what they had become accustomed to over the last decades. And so they sweated at the docks, and drank with their boisterous friend, and jerked each other’s members in the dark, and spilled onto each other’s thighs, and hands, and mouths.

And then they visited the public baths Sunday on their day of rest, and their eyes met as they attended to themselves. Nicolò reached down and made sure to scrub himself well, and Yusuf did the same, and they had to turn from each other, lest the heat from their cheeks rise too high and they find themselves compromised in such a public place. Not that it never happened, but it was bad manners, generally speaking.

When they returned to their little room above the shops, Nicolò flung Yusuf against the wall and plundered his mouth before their door was even fastly shut.

“Ya Allah, hayati. You will destroy me like this.”

“I intend to,” Nicolò growled into his throat. He dragged his teeth over the unmarred flesh, red welts rising and falling, disappearing as quickly as they were made.

“Is it to be me, then?” Yusuf asked, even as Nicolò was working a hand down his trousers.

Nicolò pulled up short. His lover was splayed against the wall like a bug specimen pinned beneath glass. His chest rose and fell with his panting breaths, hair still damp and curling against his neck. “Do you not wish-” Nicolò asked, stilling.

Yusuf shrugged. “I am as willing as any, I supposed. But-”

Nicolò squinted. “But what?”

Yusuf’s grin was disarming. Nicolò was too confused not to be charmed by it—too confused to be wary of it, to resist.

“I had assumed… you would try. At first, at least.”

Nicolò pushed back from Yusuf, glaring at him. “And why would you presume that?”

“Well…”

“Just because you fucked my thighs, night before last?”

“Peace, my love-”

“I had your mouth, not three nights ago!” Nicolò pointed out.

And then Yusuf smiled again and Nicolò knew not to be charmed by it.

“It is always I who holds you.”

“Because I lay between you and the door!”

“I know, I know-”

Nicolò walked away, pacing across the room.

It was not that he was opposed, to trying this thing, first. The momentum that had propelled them through the door, he had been so eager, he had wanted to have Yusuf in that way and it felt natural to follow that rockslide downhill. But if Yusuf had asked before the door, on the walk home, last night: Hayati, will you? Amore mio, you are so brave, do you want to-? First? And Nicolò would have gone willingly, happily. Leapt into the abyss without a look back, because Nicolò was used to jumping first.

But for Yusuf to presume-! And based on such minor things, such spurious evidence!

“Who has laid with more men?” Nicolò asked, turning back to Yusuf. Before he could answer—already looking a little shame-faced, at least there was that!—Nicolò rushed on. “You brag about being more worldly, about all your lovers. Taking me, the unlearned priest, beneath your tutelage. Why should it not then be you, decadent and experienced cosmopolitan, who tries this new act first?”

Yusuf held out both hands before him before bringing them together in a plea. “If you were to take the numbers, my darling, of how many times we have made love, and sum them, and divide our totals in a ratio compared to each other, I do not think that I could be said to have significantly more experience lovemaking than you, at this time in our long, long lives. We have conducted every beautiful action together, far eclipsing my few dozen fumblings before I met you. If I spilled myself with another man a hundred times before you, surely the tens of thousands of times we have achieved ecstasy by each other’s hands dwarfs that small number of external experiences.”

But Nicolò had learned. He had loved Yusuf for decades now and knew him better than any on earth. He had heard the speeches and been wooed by his beautiful brown eyes, his glimmering skin, his shiny hair. Nicolò would not look at his Yusuf—instead he rummaged through his pack until he came up with what he sought: a silver coin.

“We flip for it,” he announced. When Yusuf hesitated, Nicolò shrugged. “It is only fair.”